Metropolis
by Pillow of Winds
Summary: It's the year 2026. The Keepers are losing the war, and resorting to drastic measures to cover up their legacy. Little by little people are drawn in to the conflict, whether they want to be or not... [Mainly DP, FOP, GandE, FHFIF, XS, EEnE, IZ]
1. Prologue : Part One

All right, guys? This is the big one - let me summarise. It's almost one big AU crossover, set 20 years in the future. Most of this came up from watching '24', but there's some elements of 'The Running Man', '1984', 'The Matrix' and 'Downfall' as well. This is probably going to take a while, but I think I'm going to enjoy writing this one. For fans Danny Phantom, Fairly Odd Parents, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, Xiaolin Showdown, Ed Edd n Eddy, Grim and Evil and Invader Zim. Enjoy - reviews welcome.

_It's the year 2026 and the concept of security no longer exists in the fragile human conscience. From the time the Keepers took control, it has long since vanished like the vague memories of a dream. Now they have control of everything. Indoctrination, intimidation and even torture and execution have become systematic. On the other side of the equation are the Black Dogs, a splinter group of the army also operating as a terrorist cell, and determined to overthrow the Keepers at all costs._

_Metropolis is at war, and as potentially life-changing events begin to unfold, another resistance, those hounded by both sides, must take matters into their own hands and fight, even if it means resorting to drastic measures..._

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

_July__ 2024_

The sun had already risen, but fourteen-year-old Danny Fenton still lay in bed, half-asleep and bleary-eyed. He was unwilling to do anything much today, despite the fact that the powers that be had granted them a little reprieve from school. It was only a brief vacation – the only reason they were educated at all was to replace those teaching _them_, and any slacking was often regarded as idleness or weakness. But now he had a week or so to himself. He got out of bed and pulled some clothes on. Funny, he contemplated, he'd waited so long for this, and now it was here, he didn't know what to do with it –

He snapped out of his thoughts as a brick sailed through his open window and landed at the foot of his bed, a note tethered to it by a length of string. Viewing it as if it were a small creature, almost wary of what the note had to say, he gingerly unfurled the paper.

_Daniel_, it read:

_You have never met me, nor do you know who I am – but I know about you. People like us have to look out for each other. I can't tell you any more in case my message is intercepted. Meet me at the power station at 6:00 tonight if you want to get out of here alive._

As he reread the ominous-sounding message, Danny's stomach turned. _Get out of here alive?_, he thought, _what the hell?..._ He scanned the room furtively, in case anyone was watching or lying in wait for him, before he folded the note into four and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. He was supposed to meet Sam and Tucker later that evening, but he didn't suppose it would take that long to sort this out. Still, he felt ambivalent about going. What if this person was dangerous? What if they had a knife or something? After all, he didn't know them, didn't even who they _were_. His dad had been obsessing recently about government agents spying on him…was this something to do with it? Trying in vain to put the question out of his mind as he traipsed downstairs, Danny suddenly felt vulnerable and a little scared.

* * *

He glanced at his watch as he came to the door of the power station. It was a large, looming building, its concrete exterior stained grey through years of pollution both from outside and within. Plumes of smoke used to be churned out through its tall chimneys, rising into the sky like long, black snakes. Danny warily pushed open the door, flinching as the piercing sound of its rusty hinges grated at his ears. The breeze that entered with him kicked up a cloud of dust that went straight down his windpipe and into his eyes. Coughing and shielding his eyes, he pressed on, wondering why this guy would want to meet him _here_, of all places. Sunlight streamed onto the warehouse floor through its smashed windows as he walked towards the far wall, carefully stepping over fallen rafters and discarded oil drums. A little nervously, he looked around. This must be some sort of stitch-up, he thought, probably perpetrated by Dash or Kwan or another of the football jerks from school. The mysterious stranger, whoever he was, probably didn't even exist. He was completely alone – or at least, he thought he was. 

"Good evening, Daniel," a deep voice said from behind him, and he spun around to face who it belonged to. A man stood about ten feet away from him, about six-foot-two with piercing green eyes and long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail. His trench-coat rippled as the wind coursed underneath it. "I've been expecting you."

"Who are you?" Danny asked, "What do you want from me?"

"My name is Vlad Masters," the man said. He took a step forwards. "And the reason I've called you here is that you're in very grave danger."

"Danger?" Danny questioned. "What are you talking about?"

"I won't lie to you, Daniel," Masters continued. "There are people out there who want you. There are people out there who want to take people like us and use them to further their own needs. These people are the Keepers, Daniel – and they're after you."

"Wait a minute," he said, scarcely believing he was still listening to this psycho. "People like _us_? What do you mean 'us'?"

"I am like you in some ways," Masters answered. "Like you, I am also half-ghost, half-human." To demonstrate, he held out his hand and Danny watched as the colour and substance was drained from it, leaving it intangible. Still unconvinced, Danny waved his own hand through it, feeling the slight chill as it cut straight through the middle. Masters' hand became visible again. "And these people – they consider us _assets_, Daniel. They want to have _all_ of us. They know where I am, they know about you." He paused. "For all our sake, you must listen to me and listen to me carefully. They're coming here for me now, they'll be here shortly. I have taken a suicide pill; I will be dead within the next few minutes. But _you_, Daniel, will be the one to continue the chain. That's why you must get out of here and _run_, as fast as you can, as far away as you can."

"Why do I have to run?" Danny asked, not quite understanding what this guy was getting at. "Why can't I just use my powers to get away from these guys?"

"You can't!" Masters hissed back at him, making him shrink back slightly. "You have to phase through the wall to get out, but on the outside, you can't go completely ghost. They have heat-seeking equipment – they'll spot you even if they can't see you. Your best chance of remaining inconspicuous is, ironically enough, to remain conspicuous. That way, they won't regard you with such high suspicion…"

At that moment, Masters gasped and clutched his chest – the pill had started to take effect. His strength gave out and he buckled forward onto his knees. Danny went forward to help him, but then he heard shouts and the sound of the big double doors being pushed open…and the sound of men running, dozens of them.

"Run, Daniel…" Masters groaned, lying down on his side. Danny hesitated. "_Run!_" he growled through gritted teeth. As uniformed men began swarming towards them, Danny went intangible and phased through the nearest wall.

The militiamen surrounded Masters' body and pointed their rifles at him; he wasn't moving. The commando of the unit stepped over and felt for a pulse. He found none. "Damn it," he cursed, "he's dead. He must have known we were coming." He stood up. "Find the other one," he barked, "now!"

As he emerged on the outside, Danny's eyes darted from side to side, anxiously seeking out any trace of the soldiers. He caught sight of a couple of them standing guard by the wall, but facing away from him. So as not to attract their attention, he crept away as quickly and quietly as he could. After he had pressed on for about thirty yards, he found the entire complex surrounded by a barbed wire fence. His basic halfa instinct and Masters' brief warnings were quarrelling in his mind. All of a sudden, there was a sudden metallic clang as the double doors of the warehouse were forced open again and rebounded against the concrete walls. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw about twenty armed men in dark-blue combat gear swarm out. One of them noticed him about to climb over the fence and the group charged towards him, the sound of their feet rumbling like dim thunder. For a moment, Danny simply stood against the wire, scared into paralysis like a deer in headlights. His body refused to do anything as the militiamen came closer and closer…

He closed his eyes and turned himself intangible before flinging himself at the fence. Landing on the other side, he glanced back to see the soldiers still rushing towards him, and a new rush of adrenaline began to surge through his body. Almost losing his footing on the dusty road, he ran back towards the river, hearing the sounds of latticed wire being shaken violently behind him.

Out on the main road, Jack Fenton had been forced to pull over. The engine in his stupid RV had died on him again, for the third time that week. He didn't know anything about combustion engines, but no mechanic would agree to take a look at it for him. Wherever he went, the people there would consider him some kind of weirdo, just because he hunted ghosts for a living. He sighed irritably, giving the front of the vehicle a good, solid kick. He looked away from the road. At least from here you got a decent enough view of the river. Today it was better than usual; the sunlight shimmered on the surface as the water undulated beneath it. A boy ran across his line of vision. _Out for a jog_, he thought at first, but the kid was running too fast to simply be out for some exercise. He recognised his clothes and his hair colour, and it briefly reminded him of his son Danny…

Hang on a second. Was that Danny? It probably was, and he was running scared, he could sense it. "Danny?" he called out, but Danny took no notice. He started to run, abandoning his vehicle at the side of the street. He called out Danny's name again, but still no answer. By now getting concerned himself, he tried to retain an equal distance from him, but it was hard. Danny was thin and wiry, and although he was by no means fat, he was considerably larger. Keeping his eyes on his son, Jack followed him as he turned into an alleyway.

Clouds of dust sprang up from the earth as Danny sprinted behind the houses of 12th Avenue, lodging in his windpipe and making him splutter. He hadn't seen the soldiers since he'd escaped the warehouse, nor his dad trailing him, but that didn't make him any less nervous. The slightest movement caused him to panic more and more. But he figured he was almost out – he'd been running for going on fifteen minutes non-stop. His throat was burning and his chest throbbed with a stinging pain. Spying the highway ahead of him, he put on an extra burst of speed. If he could just make it out to the open road, he might be able to flag someone down and get far enough away from here to safely use his ghost powers and slip back into Metropolis…

But just before he reached the mouth of the alley, a black van hurtled in front of him with a screech from the brakes and blocked his exit. He stopped running and saw two men, clad in black and wearing balaclavas, step out. He was about to swiftly turn his heel and go back the way he came when another tackled him violently from the side, slamming him into the ground.

Rapidly running out of breath, Jack rounded the corner to see a man kneeling on Danny's back, pinning him to the floor. Another unsheathed something from his coat pocket. At first glance, Danny and Jack thought it was a switchblade; but when the man brought it up to the light, and the fading rays of sunlight flashed off the tip, both realised with equal horror what it was – a syringe.

Danny was about to go ghost and try and escape these thugs before he heard someone weakly call his name. He looked up from the dirt to see his father running towards him as fast as his burly frame would allow him to. "Dad?" he called back, and then yelled in pain as one of his captors thrust the syringe into his neck.

"Danny!" Jack roared and charged toward the darkly-clad strangers like an enraged bull until one of them pulled a gun on him.

"Stay where you are!" he ordered. "Put your hands behind your head!"

"What are you doing?" Jack demanded of them. His cautious gaze shifted to Danny, his blue eyes betraying his incomparable fear. A small trickle of blood was making his way down the side of his neck from where the syringe had gone in. "Why are you doing this to my son?"

"Because we want him," the gunman answered. "Lie down on the ground." Jack, for a second, complied with his request, but paused when he was on his knees. Danny wasn't struggling so much now – his strength was evidently fading and his eyelids drooping. They'd probably injected him with some kind of sedative or anaesthetic. The gunman noticed him stop and then forced him down with a sharp kick to his shoulder. Jack fell over onto his side, grunting at the dull ache now throbbing in his arm. "Lie on your front! Now!" the gunman shouted at him, and he did so. As long as Danny was left unharmed, whatever it took.

The gunman glanced over to the other two, and both he and Jack watched Danny as his eyes closed firmly and his head lolled forward. The one with the syringe made a gesture to him and he acknowledged it. "Put him in the van," he called. While they placed Danny's limp body in the back, he bent down to look Jack in the eye and pressed the cold steel barrel against his temple. "If you try to follow us," he growled, "your son will be killed." And with that, he stowed the gun in his belt, jogged back to the van and hopped in the passenger seat. The engine revved up before the van squealed around the corner and out of view.

Jack watched it disappear and once the dust had settled, he got sluggishly to his feet, temporarily stunned by how quickly this whole thing had happened. For the first time in his life, he felt genuinely scared, unsure where Danny was being taken, what might happen to him…whether he'd ever see him alive again. He couldn't find the strength to move for a good few minutes, until he threw his head back and roared with frustration and anger, venting his fury at the heavens. Other people might have wondered what the hell was going on, but he didn't care – they hadn't lost a son today.

He turned on his heel and headed back towards the city. He couldn't pursue Danny's captors, they were too far away by now, but he could do the next best thing – report his disappearance. Determined to get him back, he made for the Ministry of Information.

* * *

Dr. Joseph Silbermann sat nonchalantly in his office smoking a cigarette. For all the power the Keepers possessed, they sure didn't know how to convert it into decent, smoke-able tobacco. As the vile fumes passed his lips in a ring that floated up towards the ceiling, a wispy halo that dissipated on the breeze, his 'phone rang. He stubbed out his cigarette and picked up. "Hello?" 

"We've got the boy," the voice on the other end said. "We're bringing him in now."

"Good," Silbermann replied, "I'll inform the Inner Circle." He hung up before redialling the man in charge of the Ministry of Information. After waiting for the monotonous drone to lead to someone vaguely human, an assistant on the other end answered. "This is Silbermann," he said, "patch me through to Anderson."

He waited a few seconds more before another voice came on the line. "Yes?"

"This is Dr. Joseph Silbermann at the Cicatriz Laboratory. I need you to draw up the records of Daniel Fenton."

On the other end, Howard Anderson pored over the internal database that held the details of every inhabitant in Metropolis. "We've got a couple of them, Joseph. How old is he?"

"14, date of birth 25th of June."

"Got it."

"Get rid of it."

"You have authorisation from the Inner Circle, I assume?"

"Yes. Remove it."

"It'll be restored to another location."

"That's not good enough, damn it," Silbermann growled, "I want it deleted. Beyond reach, beyond recovery. Completely eliminated."

"If you insist," Anderson acknowledged, removing all traces of Danny's existence at the push of a button.

* * *

"What do you mean, 'No Match Found'?" Jack questioned the clerk incredulously. "What do you mean, 'There's no record of Daniel Fenton'?" 

"I mean what I said, Mr. Fenton," the clerk replied coolly. "I've put in the most precise details I can, and I've found nothing. There is no record of _anyone_ in Metropolis named Daniel Lewis Fenton."

"This is crazy!" Jack protested, "I saw him there!"

"I can understand that you're probably feeling very distressed, maybe even a little bit disturbed, but maybe –"

"'But' nothing!" Jack shouted in reply, causing other people waiting in line to turn their heads and look at him. "This isn't a terrorist or criminal we're dealing with here, this is my _son_! For Christ's sake, he's _fourteen_! He's a _kid_! He's been kidnapped and taken away to some god-forsaken place, left to survive on his own, and you won't _help him_?" Almost apoplectic with rage by now, Jack tried in vain to calm himself down, but the clerk seemed unperturbed by his sudden outburst.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenton," he said with a po-faced shrug, "according to our records, you have one daughter – Jasmine, age sixteen – but no other children. So unless this child was brought in by you off the street and as such has not been registered by the state, your "son" does not exist."

"Don't patronise me, buddy," Jack warned, his temper rising again. "I've devoted fourteen years of my life to ensure my son's safe and proper upbringing. I've fed him, I've played catch with him, I was watching him grow up into a fine young man, and now…that's it? He doesn't exist? He just…wasn't ever there, like some sort of…_ghost_?"

"It springs to mind, Mr. Fenton," the clerk continued, disregarding his words and adjusting his glasses, "that aside from your family life, you have devoted much of your professional man-hours to the study and pursuit of things that don't exist. I'm talking, of course, about your particular obsession with ghosts and the supernatural. Your grasp of reality does not seem quite secure." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, directing Jack's attention to the myriad interfaces and switchboards that covered the hallow walls of the Ministry, wires running between them like vines. "These computers don't make mistakes, Mr. Fenton. Humans do. Your son was little more than the vague dreams you've wasted so much of your time with."

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Jack roared, swinging his fist at the Plexiglas window hard enough to make it shake inside its frame. "What have you done to him? God damn it, _tell me where he is_!" All of a sudden, two burly security guards, even stronger than he was, ambushed him from behind and held his arms behind his back. As he struggled with them in vain, the clerk stood up from his chair, looking out smugly from his impregnable fortress.

"I've tried conducting business with you in an orderly fashion, Mr. Fenton," he said, his tone now much more austere. "But I'm afraid you've left me no alternative but to expel you from the premises." With that, he gestured to the two guards and said, "Take him outside."

"You can't do this!" Jack protested as they led him back towards the door, jostling with them every step of the way. "That's my son, you little son-of-a-bitch!"

As the guards threw him roughly to the floor, one of them leaned down and growled, "Better watch what you say, buddy, before I take you down to the mental institution and make sure you never see the light of day again." He straightened up. "Get out." A snarl still crossing his lips, Jack got back up and walked away, not comprehending the injustice he had just experienced. _Danny_, he thought, _I know you're out there…_ He turned round to take a last look at the huge, almost cathedral-like building that was the Ministry of Information before making his way home, back to his wife and daughter. He felt a condemned man; God, how was he going to break the news to them? Danny was gone; his absence would sting all of them like salt in a wound. _But I'm never giving up on you, son_, he assured him as he walked down the pathway.

Never.


	2. Prologue : Part Two

It's me again. Just trying to set out a bit more of the story before I get on to the main part. For fans of Fosters' or FOP, this little bit. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

_January 2025_

Cognitive Crimes against the State Act 2022

_Article 7 : Any beings formed by the process of the mind are considered to be products of an unstable imagination. Thus the creation and existence of imaginary friends is considered an act of defiance against the Mental Health Act of 2017, and is therefore a crime._

_Subsection A : All imaginary friends are to be reported to the local authorities for immediate isolation, quarantine and internment._

_Subsection B : Any person or persons whose imaginative or creative processes are manifested in an imaginary friend is/are considered to be mentally unsound, and is/are therefore placed under the jurisdiction of the Mental Health Act of 2017._

_Subsection C : Any person or persons found concealing imaginary friends for any purpose commits a crime against the state, and is/are likely to be incarcerated indefinitely._

They came for him in the night.

They'd come and gone so swiftly and efficiently that Mac didn't know his friend was gone until the next morning. He'd broken out in a sweat when he gazed out from the schoolyard gate only to find that the Victorian spires of the Fosters mansion had completely disappeared from view. His only thoughts had been of Bloo and his other friends at Fosters', and what kind of danger they could be in. Without wasting another second, he had darted across the road, paying no mind to the squealing of brakes and the aggravated driver shouting obscenities at him from behind the wheel. When he arrived, he stared incredulously at the smouldering pile of rubble that lay before him. Mdm. Foster was sitting alone on the lawn weeping wretchedly.

"What happened?" he asked her. "Who did this?"

"They did," she replied, "the Keepers."

_Crickets chirped their sombre melodies in the bushes outside. Inside the mansion, the residents had already bedded down; some of them were dreaming of what would happen tomorrow, others of a family they could feel a part of, call their own. The hallways, usually bustling with day-to-day activity, had fallen silent. The myriad clocks on the myriad walls ticked away the hours in perfect sequence, but the residents' slumber went undisturbed._

_They broke down the front door at about 2 a.m. and swarmed inside, waking everyone in the house simultaneously. Before anyone could realise what was happening, they were racing up stairs, kicking in doors, pointing rifles in frightened faces. Ferocious dogs were let loose inside, driven forward by a savage bloodlust. The malicious glint in their eyes sparkled as they sought out fresh meat._

_One of them, by the name of Wilt, tried to come to the aid of some of his friends, putting his ample height to good use. He managed to pull a few of them free before they tranquillised him and sent him crashing to the floor like a statue torn from its pedestal. This was the encounter they'd been anticipating for some time now – for almost three years._

_As they were being herded down the many flights of stairs and out of the front door into the grounds, some of them collapsing in confusion and disorientation before being kicked into getting up again by the soldiers, Frankie Foster opened her bedroom door to find torches scouring the corridors like searchlights. Quickly before she could reconsider, she burst up the stairs towards her grandmother's room, hearing bullets fly and permeate the wall behind her, and empty shells scatter on the floorboards. Mrs. Foster awoke with a start as Frankie came crashing through the door._

_"Grandma, we gotta go," she panted, "right now. They're here." As her aged grandmother swung herself out of bed, she added, "Come on. We'll take one of the secret passages." She opened a closet door to reveal a path of darkness that led away into oblivion, lit the candle on Mrs. Foster's bedside table, and the two of them made their way as quickly and carefully as possible down the passageway._

_Out on the other side, Frankie pushed out the wall panel that led to the back garden. Trying to keep themselves well concealed, they crept silently across to a clump of bushes. 'Hide here, grandma,' Frankie said._

_"What?" she replied, scarcely able to comprehend what she'd just been told._

_"Hide," Frankie emphasised quickly, "I'm going back."_

_"Then take me back with you!" Mrs. Foster said, trying in vain to reason with her granddaughter. Something had not been quite right with her of late – she seemed to go about everything in a very cautious manner, peering frequently out of the window, jumping at the slightest sound. Now her eyes were burning with ardour, a determination to fight._

_"I can't," she answered, looking around quickly. "All those friends in there are gonna be taken away and locked up. If you come back with me, you will be too." She saw her grandmother look her desperately in the face and sighed. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."_

_There was an uncomfortable silence, only penetrated by the shouts, barks and gunshots from inside the house. One of the soldiers was sent crashing through a window, hit the ground head-first and lay where he fell, crumpled and still._

_"I have to go," Frankie said, turning around and hurrying back towards the house._

_"Frankie!" she called; her granddaughter turned back to face her again. "Be careful, dear. Please be careful."_

_Frankie smiled. "They're not getting out of here without taking me." And with that, she fled back into the house, not looking back at the dead man that lay at the base of the wall._

"And what happened then?" Mac asked. "What happened to her?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Foster replied. "But before they left, I saw something out there – " She pointed out towards the gate. " – something horrible."

"What?" Mac pressed her, desperate for answers, "What did you see?"

"All those imaginary friends, being driven like sheep into big, black trucks, crushed inside them, no matter whether big or small. And just before they set fire to the house, I saw them drag Frankie out by the legs; she wasn't moving – I couldn't tell if she was dead or not. Then they flung her into the back of another van, and then the whole convoy took off."

Stunned into silence, Mac stood up again, almost falling over backwards as he stumbled. "What'll happen to them?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Foster wheezed uneasily, "I was hoping this wouldn't ever have to happen." She looked him in the eye and continued. "Mac – they'll be taken to camps…to work off the debt the Keepers think they owe. Maybe some of them will be sold into slavery, I just don't know…oh, my dear boy…I'm so sorry…" She trailed off and her shoulders heaved as she began to sob again.

Mac surveyed the wreckage and thought of Bloo for a minute. The highlight of his day was spending a couple of hours in this house, taking some time to have some fun with his best friend. He couldn't make friends in school – all the kids considered him too weird to hang around with, shunned him in favour of more popular kids. All the people – well, "people" – who liked him for who he was had been at Foster's, and now for whatever reason, people had seen fit to deprive him of something again. Yelling out in frustration, he kicked one of the many splintered shards of wall that were now kindling the fire. Feeling completely alone, completely alienated, he crouched down with his head in his hands and he wept, for the scene of devastation in front of him, for the injustice of everything that had happened last night…but most of all for Bloo, and all the other friends at Foster's, friends he might never see again.

* * *

_May 2025_

He'd been in the house for two hours, but Timmy Turner still felt so giddy he couldn't stop himself jumping about with glee. No parents, but more importantly, _no babysitter_. He was free to do whatever he wanted, for that afternoon only, and he was going to make the most of it. His faithful fairies, Cosmo and Wanda, smiled fondly at him as they watched his ridiculous celebrations, granting wishes left, right and centre.

"This is so _awesome_!" Timmy yelled, still scarcely able to contain himself. "This is gonna be the greatest day of my life!" And what made it better was the fact that his two fairy godparents were here to share this with him, the fairy godparents who stuck by him and helped him out no matter what the personal cost.

"Calm down, Timmy!" Wanda smiled, "There's still another couple of hours to go!"

"Yeah!" Cosmo agreed, "So what do you wanna do?"

A mischievous smile crossed Timmy's face. "Oh, that's easy," he grinned, "I wish…" He trailed off as something dark-blue suddenly ducked down outside the window.

"Timmy?" Wanda asked, "What's the –"

Timmy put a finger to his lips and listened intently. A bead of sweat began to trickle down his forehead when he heard someone unlatch the front door – from the outside. "Someone saw," he whispered, "quick, hide!"

"But Timmy," Cosmo protested, "what about –"

"_Hide!_" Timmy hissed urgently. Suddenly, as the two fairies changed themselves into fish and landed safely in his goldfish bowl, the front door swung open with a bang and six tall, muscular men, each armed with a rifle, burst through into the front room.

"Don't move!" one yelled at him, straightaway pointing his gun in Timmy's direction. Slowly he raised his quailing hands to the sky. Two others grabbed a chair and forced him into it, one holding him down while the other tied his hands behind his back. The lights went out. Timmy could feel his bound hands quailing behind him as footsteps approached, and he groaned with discomfort as a soldier shone a torch directly into his eyes.

"You're Timmy Turner, are you not?" he asked, his steely glare piercing him like a needle.

Still shaking and sweating, Timmy stammered, "Y-y-yes," in response.

"I believe you know why we've come here," the soldier continued. Timmy swallowed nervously. Did they know about Cosmo and Wanda? "We've come for them."

"'Them'? 'Them' who?" Timmy asked, trying not to turn his gaze to the goldfish bowl.

The soldier laughed. "Nice try," he said, his trustworthy smile not faltering. "You wouldn't happen to know where they are, would you? After all, they are yours, aren't they?"

The boy stayed silent, sweat trickling down his forehead. At the back of the room, Owen Ritter watched the interrogation with what could only be described as ambivalence. This was doubtless to aid the Keepers, which is what he himself was supposed to do, but would the ends justify these means? _You're distracting yourself_, he thought authoritatively, _concentrate_.

The soldier's grin widened a little. "From all my years of experience, kid, you wouldn't believe what I'd be able to do to you if you don't tell me right now. I'd probably start by pulling your fingernails out one by one…" He watched as the boy's eyes widened in horror, and he could actually hear his teeth chattering by now. "Maybe even your teeth, should the need arise…but we don't _really_ need to go through that, do we? It's such an effort, after all. It would be so much easier, for both of us, if you simply tell us where they are." The boy was whimpering by now, on the verge of tears, but the awaited words didn't come. The soldier turned to face one of his colleagues. "Pass me the pliers."

_This is crazy!_, Timmy thought, _They can't possibly…_ But he was proved horribly wrong as the soldier took the pliers and clamped them down on one of his fingernails. "No, wait! Please!" he begged them, gasping for breath.

The pliers parted and withdrew from his finger, and the soldier leaned in and asked, "Why don't you tell us?"

"Yes, all right," Timmy conceded, "I'll admit it." He glanced back at the fishbowl again. Cosmo and Wanda were desperately mouthing at him not to do it, but he knew deep down that he had to – it was safer for him and for them. "I'll admit that I have fairy godparents!" he yelled loud enough that the entire room could hear.

Suddenly, bits of timber began to fall as the ceiling split open with a searing flash of light. The soldiers looked on, stunned, as a colossal being floated down through the hole. Whatever it was, it was ten feet tall and built like a tank. The light subsided, and the stranger pointed what looked like a staff square at Timmy's face.

"Timmy Turner!" it barked with a distinguishable German accent, "You have broken the most important rule by revealing the existence of your fairies! You know the consequences!"

"Jorgen, no, you can't!" a woman's voice said as two other, considerably smaller creatures appeared next to the giant. _That's them_, Ritter thought, _that's what Crocker was talking about all along…_ "What choice did Timmy have?" the voice said. "Just look at the people in this room! How could he _not_ say it?"

"Yeah!" another voice, this time a man's, agreed, "These guys might have captured us if it weren't for Timmy!"

"That does not matter!" the giant thundered. "The circumstances are irrelevant! You still broke the rules, Timmy Turner, and for that, you will lose your fairies – _forever_!"

Despite Cosmo and Wanda's pleas, Jorgen was not convinced as he held his staff over them. They turned around sadly to face him. "Sorry, Timmy," Wanda said, starting to cry, "we tried, we really…"

"That's OK," said Timmy, just as tearful, "you'll be safe now."

"Goodbye, sport," Cosmo waved forlornly as a pillar of light sprung forth from Jorgen's staff, making he and Wanda waver like a hologram. "Goodbye…"

_Shit_, Ritter thought as he watched the events unfold, and decided not to wait any longer. Without a moment's hesitation, he fled out of the front door and took cover below the windowpane.

"We love you, Timmy!" the two fairies shouted in tandem. Slowly, they began to fade into the light.

"I love you guys, too…" Timmy called to them before they disappeared entirely, lost to him forever. Jorgen slammed his staff on the ground, and disappeared in another blinding flash.

Ritter covered his head as he saw the light break through the window like the northern lights, before it subsided. Once he thought the coast was clear, he cautiously got to his feet and re-entered the house. His men were still there, but they were standing around like lost travellers, unsure why they were there.

One of them saw him enter the room and said, "Evening, sir." He paused, then added, "Forgive me, sir, but…what exactly are we doing here?"

Ritter ignored him. Instead he marched over to Timmy and seized him by the shoulders. "What is your name?" he asked, desperate to find out the extent of the amnesia. "What is your name?" he shouted when the boy didn't reply.

"Timmy Turner," the boy answered, shrinking back from the harsh sound of his voice. "Why…who are you? What are you doing here?"

Again Ritter took no notice of the question and motioned to his men, "Move out. We're heading back to HQ." His order was greeted by some puzzled looks, but gradually they filed out of the room one by one. _At least they remember who they are_, Ritter thought. He stopped one of the men and whispered to him so they boy couldn't hear, "Give the child a sedative and then untie him. He'll wake up and think this was all a dream." The man nodded, and Ritter watched as he lay his case down and opened it, withdrawing a syringe and filling it from a vial. The boy protested at first as the soldier tried to administer the sedative, but fell silent once it entered his bloodstream. He fell forward limply and the soldier removed the shackles from his hands, leaving him to slouch over and sleep. As his men clambered back into their vans and took off back towards Metropolis, Ritter turned the night's events over and over again in his mind, trying to comprehend what he'd just witnessed and trying not to think how Crocker was going to crucify him when he returned empty-handed.

* * *

Far away from there, back in the Core, Denzel Crocker sat expectantly in his gloomy office, eagerly awaiting Ritter's arrival. 

He'd used to be a weapons developer; in fact, for much of his young life, he'd had ambitions in the medical field. However, he had discovered during his sophomore year the unparalleled allure of pathology and studies of other diseases. His obsession with the subject stretched beyond involved, even bordering on morbid, and prompted the authorities to raise doubts about his mental stability. In spite of their worries, his progress soon led to a degree, which in turn branched out to job opportunities. However, by now his passion for helping people had waned considerably; the years spent on his own, experimenting and viewing weak strains of virus and bacteria after hours, the solitary light in a darkened laboratory, had helped him to realise the sheer power contained by only a simple membrane. It had sown some seeds in his mind that had taken root and left him twisted and warped. The only place he could possibly utilise his abilities was with the Keepers and their fledgling weapons programme.

Fifteen years later, here he was, with his own office, having progressed rapidly through the ranks. He didn't wield a great amount of power, incomparable to that which the Inner Circle possessed. He still had the authority to order "rub-outs"; the Keepers preferred not to use such a gangland term, but that was essentially what they were. They were simple, and they were cheap; call in an assassin or a militia from the armed forces, supply with a name, address, description, pay them their dues – job done. The unlucky person would never be seen or heard from again.

But his other, far darker obsession, one that was rarely discussed even among Party members, was one with fairy godparents, magical beings who had the power to do anything. Since an early age, he'd somehow convinced himself that they were as real as the nose on his face. At first he thought it lunacy, but it was a notion that never really left him, one that stayed festering in a dark corner of his mind until it had become malignant and completely consumed him. Some day, he'd repeated to himself over the years, like a mantra, he'd catch one and prove it to the world, prove how useful they were – and how effective a weapon they would be. He'd tried to prove this to the Keepers. With their mastery of all things unfathomable, nobody would be able to stop them. Not only would they conquer the continent – they could conquer the globe. Their empire would rule for a thousand years at least.

Naturally they hadn't listened to him. For this reason, some in the Keepers' hierarchy thought that he was clinically insane, and it was the opinion of many that he was on a steady downward spiral. Yet no-one within the Party had had the audacity to oppose him before now. Eventually, frustrated after all his efforts, he'd retired to his office and thought what to do next. Thoughts of betrayal were the first things on his mind. They'd had their chance to jump on the bandwagon, and in their blind ignorance, they had lost it for good. Why should he be forced to share such power and invincibility with such sheer mortals? _He_ would be the one to rule for a thousand years. Whatever he wished, they had to grant – eternal life, world domination, complete sovereignty not just over Metropolis, but the entire planet –

Crocker's yellowing teeth bared themselves as he grinned at the prospect. The common people had submitted themselves collectively to the Keepers; now they would bow to him. If _anyone_ displeased him in any way, it would be the last anyone would ever hear from them. He'd be the wrath of God – no, he would _be_ God…

At that moment, his musings were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. His thick-soled boots tapping loudly on the wooden floor, Owen Ritter wandered in and stood at ease in front of his desk.

"Ah, Owen," he said. "Where are you holding them?"

Ritter said nothing before replying, "We don't have them, sir."

So convinced of his victory, Crocker was sure for a brief moment that Ritter was kidding. The mercenary's expression did not change, and he was stunned as the truth knocked him from off his high horse. How could this be? Uttering a small laugh of disbelief, he asked, "What?"

All of a sudden, Ritter felt slightly uneasy. Although quiet, Crocker's voice was still as threatening as the rumble of a tank or the distant growl of a tiger. "We don't have them –"

"I heard you the first time, you idiot!" Crocker screamed at him, surging up and slamming his fist on the table, "I want to know _why_ you don't have them!"

Ritter swallowed. "The kid…told us he had them. There was a flash of light, and this giant came out of the sky, uttered something about breaking the rules. I admit, I fled. I ran outside, and when I came back…the fairies were gone, the kid didn't remember a thing, neither did my team. It was like some sort of specific memory loss – the kid remembered everything except the fact that he'd even _had_ those things."

Crocker took his seat again, pondering the consequences that would doubtless arise from this fiasco. The fairies, his orb and sceptre, his Ark of the Covenant – they were gone, wrenched from his grasp when they had been so tantalisingly close. The Inner Circle would no longer hold him in such high regard. He would undoubtedly be punished for his mistake. The only thing left that he could do was cover it up.

"We need to take care of the boy," Crocker said. "He'll remember that you were there, he'll tell his parents, they might inform the neighbours, the police – the entire city will know about it."

Ritter shifted slightly. "What do you need me to do?"

"Dead men tell no lies," Crocker said, looking back up at Ritter. "Kill him. And his parents. This can't be allowed to circulate."

"As you wish, sir." Ritter saluted then walked calmly out of the office. By now he felt very uneasy, even more so than during Crocker's sudden fit of anger. His conscience itself was raging inside him, hurling conflicting questions at him left, right and centre. Kill a child, he thought to himself as he went through the glass double doors that led out of the building, Had he heard him right? It was a thought that had never occurred to him before, because he'd never been put in such an awkward position before. He'd done his share of killings and arrests on the Keepers' behalf, but to kill a _child_? Was that right? All human beings – well, _most­_ – knew by simple intuition that some things were right and some were wrong. Through his years under the Keepers' watchful eye, his had altered. Murder, for example. If someone out in Metropolis had killed another person himself, or was actively conspiring against the Keepers, their death would not weigh heavily upon his conscience. But he knew that to kill an innocent person was wrong, and especially so if it was a child. Had this boy done anything wrong? No. Neither had his parents. But Crocker wanted all three of them dead, nevertheless.

But what position was he in to refuse? Crocker, or so Ritter perceived, was a man who was standing on the brink of insanity, prepared to take the plunge at any given moment. If he refused, that was it. Even if he fled, even managed to escape to another _country_, they would find him. They had terrifyingly sophisticated methods of tracking people wherever they went. When they found him, they would kill him, probably stick him in court on charges of treason first, another bit of propaganda to shove down the throats of their doting public. It was a remorseless system in Metropolis, one where you could only survive through co-operation and personal submission. He was nothing but a cog in these works, an insignificant part that could easily be discarded and replaced.

Better to accept the less of two evils, he decided. Reluctantly he set out for his post again to collect some troops and do the deed before he ended up doing something he'd really regret later.

* * *

On the next day, Timmy trudged up the sidewalk that led to his house. It had been enough effort to stay awake that day, never mind get through school. A horrifying nightmare had woken him up in the middle of the night; he couldn't remember what it entailed now, but the impression it had left was so deep that he hadn't been able to get back to sleep. He nodded off at various points that day, only for a single image from this dream to appear and wake him up. Maybe it was due to his tiredness, but he felt a bit depressed as well today, as if someone very close to him had disappeared from his life. 

Eager to simply lay down his head and sleep, Timmy reached for the handle of the front door, but it swung open with him even having to turn the knob. Although the curtains were open, the interior still appeared to be shrouded in gloom as he peered in through the doorway.

"Mom?" he called, "Dad?" The walls themselves seemed to resonate with the sounds of his voice, sending his words echoing up the stairwell and through the entire house. An eerie feeling of isolation began to creep up on him. He tried again to get his parents' attention, but still no answer came. He felt scared. His parents didn't normally go out without telling him, or at least getting in his hated babysitter for the evening and _then_ telling him. As he walked into the kitchen, he swallowed nervously. Plates were smashed, the kitchen table was overturned, numerous items of crockery lay strewn across the floor.

Lying just in front of the table was a piece of paper, and Timmy picked it up. It was slightly crumpled, and the handwriting revealed that it had been written in a hurry. A horrifying realisation dawned on him as he examined the note and realised that it was in his mother's handwriting. Hands trembling, he read it.

_Timmy,_

_Your dad and I can see men out in the front yard. They're hiding. Some have guns. We're scared, but all we care about is that you stay safe. If you find this note, we both want you to run, run as far away as you can… _He struggled to read the last couple of lines as the writing became more frenzied. _We may not see each other again, but we know you'll be all right. Timmy – never forget that no matter what, we love you…_

Suppressing the urge to vomit out of sheer terror, Timmy allowed the letter to float harmlessly to the floor. His parents were gone, maybe even dead – and now he was alone, stranded inside his own neighbourhood. He couldn't go to anyone because nobody would help him. Tears began to fall from his eyes as he agonised over where they might be.

All of a sudden, something caught his eye and he spun around to see a man pointing a gun at him. The image from his dream appeared before him again as the man rested his finger on the trigger. He screamed and ran in blind panic through the front door. His footsteps thundering in his ears, he failed to see that the mysterious gunman had been nothing more than a hat-stand and an umbrella. His thoughts were only on escape, and as he fled into Metropolis, it would be a little while before he came to realise that he'd left part of his childhood behind as well.


	3. 1:00pm : 2:00pm

On to the main story now. Oh, just a note - I'm dividing the chapters up like '24', 12:00pm-1:00pm etc. This isn't set in real time, it's just easier for me to set out the story. And flashbacks, etc are in italics. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

_January 2026_

Edd "Double-D" White sighed heavily as he looked out over the metal banister. Down below him stood dozens of computers, enhanced by their own engineers with the best technology available, and their able team of computer scientists making sure everything ran smoothly. This was Division, and he was at the helm; but some days he really didn't want to be. Division housed another rebel movement, the one he was part of and in charge of, whose primary objective was the overthrow of the Keepers, but they preferred to operate with stealth and precision, rather than adopt the guerrilla tactics of the other, far more violent movement, the Black Dogs.

The Keepers had taken power about twenty years ago, and not long after, a splinter group from the army broke away and began to grow in size and formidability, calling themselves the Black Dogs. At the start they settled for relatively petty crimes which were not usually noticed by the Keepers themselves, until they effected a successful assassination of their Minister for Defence, Thomas Stahl. That was when the Keepers had realised how viable an opponent they were and placed their leaders on a 'Most Wanted' list. Ideologically, Division and the Black Dogs were after the same thing; methodically they couldn't have been more different. They were so opposed to each other in that aspect that the Black Dogs considered them traitors to the cause, as big an enemy as the Keepers themselves, and they'd lost a number of fine recruits in this stupid war of ideas. Yet for all their assertion of power and indifference towards human life, the Dogs' plans had been largely ineffective.

Since the Keepers had declared war on Vismund Cygnus, Double-D would have naturally thought that their reign of terror had finally come to an end, but he still had his doubts. He had to – if you were chief of Division, you could hardly ever be totally sure about anything. Sure, Metropolis was slowly being surrounded by allied forces, but the Keepers were a wily bunch. That and their mounting paranoia made them dangerous, especially to underestimate. There were some real psychos in the ranks, ones that could easily have been protégés of Stalin or Pol Pot. And of course they had their secret weapon, one that had yielded no results up to this point, but desperate men would take desperate measures. If they couldn't get anything out of this guy, they'd kill him, simple as that. Or worse – Division might have to do it themselves.

And that was where he came in. Last night he'd formulated a sketchy plan, considering possible flaws intently and deciding that it might just work. But they'd only get one shot at it – the consequences of failure would be disastrous to them all. He needed some help, though, and he knew where to find it; Mike Masinski, head of Field Ops, and the detainee's two best friends, who worked down in Intel. He walked down the staircase, passing Timmy by on the way.

"Hey, Double-D," the brown-haired lad replied.

"What?" Double-D muttered in a daze. "Oh, hi, Timmy."

"You OK?" Timmy asked him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he assured him, "just got a few things on my mind. This could be a big day for us, pal. A great day for freedom."

Timmy managed a thin smile in agreement. "Yeah, could be. Well, better get these discs out." He held out some compact discs in his hand.

"You do that. Hey," he offered, laying a hand on Timmy's shoulder, "if you ever feel like you need someone to talk to, you know I'm here for you, right?" Timmy's smile grew a little wider, and Edd cuffed him on the chin. As he hurried off towards the sector that dealt with counter-espionage, and he himself headed towards Intel, Double-D remembered how he'd come to find Timmy eight months ago, sitting shivering under a bridge downtown with his parents dead. Naturally he'd heard about it – events like these always made their way through to him somehow – and headed out to find him and bring him in.

"_Stay away from me!" Timmy hissed at him, trying to keep his balance and not plunge into the river, though it seemed an attractive option given what this stranger would probably do to him._

"_Timmy, just relax," Edd said, raising his hands to show he came in peace. "I'm gonna take you to a safe place where no-one's gonna harm you. I want to help you –"_

"_Why?" Timmy interrupted him dismissively, "Why would you even give me a second thought? How would you know what it's like to feel what I'm going through?"_

"_I know because the same thing happened to me," Edd replied. It was true – his parents were murdered by the Keepers when he was little, too young to remember them clearly enough. "I know what it feels like, but trust me, the safest place you can go right now is with me." The boy's eyes still betrayed his feelings of fear and distrust, though he could see he was starting to believe him. "Look…I'm going to give you my gun. OK? Here." He held out his gun with an outstretched hand, waiting for Timmy to take it from him. Timmy reached for it, his hand hovering nervously over the handle. "If you don't believe me, take it," Edd told him, "then do with it what you want."_

_Still he hesitated, before withdrawing his hand and murmuring, "I can't." He looked back up at Double-D, his eyes beginning to brim with tears. "I can't, I…I guess I believe you…"_

"_It's all right, kid," Double-D assured him, kneeling down in front of him. Timmy suddenly threw his arms around his neck. "We're gonna get you outta here, OK? Everything's gonna be all right."_

Because he was so distraught, Edd had had to carry Timmy back to Division, keeping as low a profile as he could in case any Keepers spotted him. But they made it back without incident, and he'd had Timmy checked up. Here was a boy who was just like him when Edd was his age – alone and scared, his parents murdered. He'd taken him under his wing that day, making sure that he had someone to look after him and to come to in times of crisis. Right now, he had got Timmy a little bit of courier work, ferrying data from Intel to other departments. He was pretty reliable, but he was pretty intelligent – he might even end up running this show some day, Double-D thought. If, of course, Division was still there.

* * *

Over in Intel, Sam Manson and Tucker Foley were still attempting to gather fresh data from the minimal sources they'd been granted. Word was coming through that a prisoner at Camp Cerpin Taxt had escaped last night, and was on the loose somewhere inside the city. They probably weren't dangerous, but the Keepers had decided to take no chances this time, and encouraged all citizens to be vigilant and alert in case they spotted the escapee. If Division managed to bring them in, they might be able to get some information on the camp or the Keepers out of them, but right now, the escapee didn't even have a name, yet alone a location, and Sam and Tucker were running thin on ideas. All of a sudden, they noticed Double-D walking up to the pair of them.

"Sam, Tucker?" he asked, keeping his voice low, "Could I talk to you for ten minutes, please?"

They were stretched as it was, but they still put their sources on hold for the time being. Double-D wouldn't have come all the way down here if it wasn't about something important. He led the two of them to the screening room. Sam felt a little nervous – were she and Tucker being sanctioned for something?

"Please," Double-D offered, "have a seat." They sat down and he did the same. "I realise that your reasons for joining us were partly to do with trying to find your friend, Danny Fenton. To the best of our knowledge, Danny's still alive. I just thought it would ease your worry a little to tell you, and I'm sorry I haven't done it before now."

The bolt from the blue temporarily stunned Tucker, but particularly Sam. She remembered the day eighteen months ago when Danny had simply vanished without a trace. His parents had 'phoned her and Tucker the next day to report his disappearance, saying that they were being refused any help in finding him; according to official records, Danny didn't even exist. They were accused of seeing ghosts, of having unstable minds. Partly because of this, partly out of fear of reprisals if they said anything, the entire community had wiped whatever memories of Danny they had from their collective memory. To them he wasn't a shadow from the past, not even a vagary – he just wasn't there, never had been.

She remembered it particularly painfully because he was on his way to meet her and Tucker up at the park. She was going to tell him for the first time how she really felt for him, how much she loved him…and then he was snatched away. Danny never got to hear what she had to say, and she never got to tell him. For a few weeks, she had tried to keep her feelings of despair and unrequited love pent up inside of her; she'd just stared blankly into the distance, trying not to think about anything, until one evening when she'd accidentally uncovered a photograph of the two of them and Tucker taken a month or so before he vanished. At the sight of his face, everything hit her at once and she'd broken down uncontrollably, sobbing into her hand for about twenty minutes. Yet despite the long time in between, she'd never given up hope of finding him alive again.

"We heard about Danny shortly after he disappeared," Double-D explained, "and through one of our sources, we managed to find out where the Keepers had taken him and what they were doing to him. They planted a camera in the room to document the research they were doing. Our computer analysts managed to hack into the connection and stream some of their footage here."

"But what did they want Danny for?" Sam asked him, "He wasn't of any use to them."

"I doubt that," Double-D replied. "From viewing the footage, we've seen Danny prove to them that he's half-human, half-ghost. I have reason to believe that they want to harness his powers for their own use, and investigate the effects of certain chemicals on his genetic make-up, so that they can alter it and apply it to their own men for future use in the field. With his powers, they'd be unstoppable."

"Have they found anything?" Tucker inquired.

"We assume they haven't," Double-D said, "but also that they haven't given up trying." With that, he loaded a tape into the player and started it up.

Sam felt her stomach contract into a knot when the static cleared and she saw Danny sitting at the end of a metal table. He was looking around his tiled cell desperately as if searching for a way out. The faint sound of a door closing could be heard on the video and Danny looked towards its source, his eyes wide with fright. Two men, burly guards in combat gear, came into shot and stood at ease behind his seat, and a tall, balding man in a lab coat followed them in, stopping in front of the table.

_"Hello there, Mr. Fenton," Dr. Joseph Silbermann said, as if receiving him at some macabre social gathering. "Welcome to your new home." So confused and afraid he was hardly able to speak, Danny remained sitting in his chair, a hundred questions running simultaneously through his mind. "You may not understand why I've brought you here," the doctor continued, sitting down at the table in front of him, "though I presume the late Mr. Masters told you of your…_uniqueness_…before his sad demise?"_

_Still Danny didn't answer. He _didn't_ understand what these guys could possibly want with him, and he didn't want to find out. All he wanted to do was get back to his family and friends, have some normality in his life again…_

_"I don't understand…what am I doing here?" he asked, "I'm just a kid, I haven't got anything to offer you –"_

_Silbermann slammed his fist on the table, almost insulted by the naivety of his question. "Do you even realise how much _potential_ lies within that mortal shell of yours? Intangible, invisible, almost _invincible_ – these make you the perfect stealth weapon." Danny listened in his confusion, still unwilling to speak in case he said something else to piss him off. "Mr. Masters would have been beneficial to our plans as well. But I guess we'll make do with you." He sat back in his chair, his arms folded. "Turn yourself invisible."_

_Danny said nothing, trying to think of a solution in his head. Why did that stupid machine of his dad's _have_ to have given him these stupid powers? None of this would be happening if – _

_"Now!" Silbermann ordered, startling Danny from his thoughts._

_"I…I don't know," he stammered. Feigning ignorance seemed to be his only window of opportunity. "I don't know what you're talking about, all this stuff, it doesn't make any sense to me –"_

_Suddenly one of the guards behind him wrapped his arm roughly around his neck. The other entwined his fingers in Danny's hair as Silbermann growled, "Don't play dumb with me, boy. You know_ exactly_ what I'm talking about." While Danny struggled with the two goons holding him down, he nodded to one of them. The goon grabbed his wrist and forcefully stretched out his arm, as with an obstreperous child about to have an injection, pressing his hand to the table, palm facing the ceiling._

_Danny desperately tried to pull his hand free as he saw Silbermann fish out a knife from his pocket and reveal the blade. His arm was visibly trembling as he felt the tip softly poke the skin in the middle of his palm. His hand was almost glistening with sweat as the tip wavered just above it._

"_We can do this two ways," Silbermann said, his fingers clenched around the handle. "Either we can do it now, peacefully and willingly, or…" He trailed off, leaving Danny to figure out the rest of his sentence. The boy was still silent, probably out of fear rather than defiance. Then without warning, he gave the knife a little jerk, watching a claret trickle emerge from the newly-formed wound. Danny screamed as he felt the blade plunge in, and then as Silbermann languorously dragged the knife a further inch down his hand. Fresh blood oozed over his skin, some spilling over onto the cold metal surface._

_The doctor's expression didn't change. "It's up to you. You decide when the pain stops," he said before carving another half-inch into Danny's hand._

As she listened to his cries for help echo round the chamber, Sam repressed the urge to reach out and touch the screen, to call his name and let him know that she was there, always would be… The sight of his blood trickling across the table made her gag, and she clutched her stomach. Tucker, feeling pangs of anguish for his both his friends' suffering, laid a supportive hand on her shoulder, feeling it shudder with emotion. He surveyed the date in the corner of the screen; it read 16:38, 25/7/2024 – just a day after Danny disappeared.

_Sobbing and gritting his teeth from the pain, Danny looked up and saw the blurry image of Dr. Silbermann say, "I suggest you think very carefully about what you do next."_

_Only one thought flashed through his mind – escape, by any means necessary. Taking a last, hateful glance at his torturer, he went ghost, hearing two thuds as the goons fell through him and landed on top of each other. His gaze set on the ceiling, he took off, desperate to get out as quickly as possible – _

_All of a sudden, he yelled aloud as his head came into abrupt contact with the ceiling. Dazed and rendered helpless by the force of the blow, his ghost form dissipated into the air, and without any powers to keep him levitating, he fell back to earth, landing on the metal table with another yell. As he lay on the ground, fighting back the throbbing pain in his head and holding his bleeding hand, he looked up to see Silbermann staring back at him. A small, malicious smile crossed the doctor's lips._

"_I neglected to mention," he drawled, "that this metal chamber is also surrounded by a plasma barrier. That means, Mr. Fenton, that even in your ghost form, you will be unable to escape." He walked towards the door and added, "So you'd better get used to it," before exiting the chamber, followed by the two goons. He turned to another scientist and said, "Remove the metal table and cauterise the boy's wound. We don't want to lose him just yet." The bespectacled young man nodded in acknowledgement and Silbermann went through the double doors that led out of the laboratory._

_Pushing open the door to Danny's cell, the younger doctor watched his new subject indifferently as he writhed from side to side, tears still streaming down his face. This one would have to be broken in, like all the others…_

"Cauterise the wound?" Sam asked nervously, "What do they mean?"

Double-D paused the tape. "They would have sterilised the wound by applying intense heat to it," he answered. "The heat causes blood vessels to shrink and blood clots to form, eventually resulting in the blood flow shutting off. At a guess…they probably passed an electric current through his hand."

"Oh, God," Sam moaned, looking back up at the screen, "Danny…"

"So what happened after that?" Tucker asked, "They keep running tests on him?"

"I'm afraid so," Edd replied. "Within a week of his arrival they started running extreme reflex tests on him, to test how quickly he could transform. Throwing objects at him, attacking him with guard dogs, even firing bullets at him." He loaded another clip. "They've injected him with numerous chemicals, to investigate the effects in case of biological warfare. One left him completely paralysed for three days." The clip appeared on the monitor, this one from April 2025. The light was dim in this one, and they had to look very hard to figure out where Danny was.

"After the chemicals, the Keepers also subjected him to sensory deprivation tests," Double-D said.

Just then, a dishevelled and plaintive voice came quietly out of the darkness. _"No, please, not again, please…"_ There was just enough light for the three of them to see a man in the room bind Danny's wrists to the chair arms, tie a blindfold over his eyes and bring out a set of headphones. At the sound of the maddening noise, Danny tried to pull himself free, but he yelled in frustration and pain as the man placed them over his ears. In spite of all his shouts and tears and pleas for mercy, his calls went unheeded.

"No, please!" he begged, thrashing his head to try and dislodge the headset, "Please, get this thing off me!" No-one listened – no-one probably even heard. Danny hung his head in defeat, starting to sob quietly as he sat alone in his cell.

"Stop the tape," Sam pleaded, averting her gaze from the screen, "I can't watch any more." Double-D complied with her request, pausing the clip, though a harrowing image still flickered on the screen. He pressed a button on his intercom.

"Mike? Could you come in, please?" The door opened and Mike Masinski stepped through. Fifteen years old with long, red hair, her robust attitude and quick thinking made her an ideal second-in-command, plus she was extremely handy with a firearm. "I've informed Sam and Tucker of Danny's present situation," Edd told her.

"OK," Mike said, leaning against the wall. "You said you had a plan."

"Well, I'm sure you're aware of what could happen if the Keepers manage to crack Danny's secret," Double-D said, turning back to Sam and Tucker, " so we're given only two options. One, we break him out. Or two…" he struggled to finish, caught in Sam and Tucker's gaze, anticipating the letdown. "…we'll be forced to terminate him."

"Absolutely not," Sam replied bluntly.

"Excuse me?"

Sam knew that it was madness to oppose him in such a fashion, but she couldn't accept that Danny might have to die. Tucker obviously thought the same, but he had yet to leave his seat. "Danny's been my best friend for ten years. I'm not gonna let anyone put a bullet in him, not you, not anyone else."

Edd sighed as he formulated a response. "I'm sorry, Sam," he replied, "but personal reservations aside, if this is the only choice we're left with, it's what we'll have to do. I don't want Danny dead either, but if the Keepers manage to take his powers for their own…then that's it. The whole fight is lost."

"So you're suggesting," Tucker mulled this over, "that we break into a military laboratory and break Danny out?"

"That's the plan," Double-D replied, "we just need to figure out how to make it work."

"But security at Cicatriz is airtight," Mike said. "It's gonna be hard enough getting in there, never mind getting back out again."

"But that depends on the computerised security system at Cicatriz running the way it's supposed to," Tucker countered. "The Keepers place too much trust in technology that can't do what they want it to. It's elaborate, but we can still pick some holes in it, at least for a short time."

"What do you propose we do?" Double-D asked him.

"Well, we can probably disable the security system temporarily," Sam answered. "We can get inside Cicatriz without the Keepers being able to do anything about it."

"Any chance it can be rebooted?" Edd asked.

"Yes, but not for half-an-hour at least."

"But there's still the problem of the barrier around Danny's cell," Mike said. "Danny's valuable to them, far too valuable to lose. The barrier might be wired up to a different connection in case something like that happens."

Suddenly Sam cam unstuck. She didn't know how to respond to that, and for a moment she had the agonising thought that she'd never see Danny again. All of a sudden, Double-D spoke up.

"An EMP might work. An electro-magnetic pulse bomb. If we plant one underneath Cicatriz and detonate it, the signal sent out would disable all above-ground electronics in the area, including the system inside the lab itself. Unfortunately, we only have pinches big enough to deal a temporary blackout – twenty minutes, tops. After that, the entire Cicatriz matrix comes back online."

"But it gives us an extra twenty minutes," Sam said. "If we can find out where Danny's being held inside the building, we can get him out after the EMP goes off."

"It's definitely feasible," Mike commented, "but the timing needs to be absolutely accurate. There's no margin for error here."

"Agreed," Double-D said. "We're going to need to go into the sewer system if we're going to plant this pinch. If I head that up, it's best if you three break into the building. I need you to draw up a plan between yourselves for entering the compound and report back to me so the two teams can correspond."

"Got it," Sam nodded, and she and Tucker got up and walked back through the door with Mike.

As the two of them left the room, Double-D looked up at the screen again. For the first time that day, he couldn't see the face of a national security threat, but that of a young boy, cruelly snatched away from his family and friends, sitting alone and scared in a cell, and being experimented on by people who thought him nothing more than a lab rat. Cupping his forehead in his hand, he rested his elbow on the desk and leaned on it, accidentally starting the video player again.

"Damn it," he muttered, and made to turn it off before he heard Danny say something. He sounded as though he was crying.

_"Mom?...Dad?...where are you?...Jazz?..._" As though a siren's call had just pierced through the gloom, Double-D listened, captivated. There were nights when he'd felt the same way, feeling the loss of his parents like the loss of a limb. Sometimes the sorrow would creep up on him and then subside; others it would take him completely by surprise, leaving him unable to even stand. He brushed his hair back as Danny continued.

"_...Tucker?...are you there?...Hello?...Sam?...oh, God…Sam…Sam, I love you…_" That was the last thing Danny uttered before his words dissolved into quiet sobs. Silently, Double-D stopped the tape and switched off the apparatus, contemplating the things he'd just heard. He was at a real quandary. It was only fair of him to let Sam know. But on the other hand, if she _did_ know, would it affect her judgement if, God forbid, the only available solution was to… It didn't bear thinking about as he opened the door and headed back towards Intel.


	4. 2:00pm : 3:00pm

Anyone fancy some Evil Con Carne?**  
**

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

His desk almost shrouded in darkness, a dim desk light doing little to perforate through the gloom, General E. Skarr looked forlornly at the map on his desk. The war had gone disastrously, as he'd always thought it would, and now they were slowly being surrounded. He and the other Keepers had total control of the city, that was true, but they were only a tiny city state. It was only a small band of loyal soldiers that were willing to fight for them. People like him and other high-ranking members of the Keepers had the power to make people vanish overnight, not just from their beds, but from existence itself. Once your personal records were destroyed, and they were in time if they thought you were a sufficient threat, you didn't officially exist. The vast majority of the population supported the Keepers purely through fear of the consequences of doing otherwise. 

But day by day, they were slowly being penned in by the advancing forces of the Eurasian Federation. Their annexation of Vismund Cygnus three weeks ago had been political and military suicide. No sooner had they mobilised their minimal troops than the Eurasian Federation had caught wind of their plans and, having finally found the excuse to rid them of their weapons programme, launched an attack themselves. The programme was hardly secret anymore – the Eurasians had found out about it months ago and reserved fears over how far it could progress. The Eurasians were a selfish race in essence, a world superpower that operated under the misnomer of "freedom fighters". Their tireless battle for world justice and peace was a vicious masquerade – they acted only to save their own necks or remove any challenge to their superiority.

As general of the armed forces, he had the final say in what his troops did during wartime, but when it came to declaring war itself, he bore no influence at all. The final decision was made by the Inner Circle, the seven most powerful Party members, and although Skarr himself had attempted to sway them away from open warfare, his protests had been ignored. Many of them viewed themselves as Roman or Greek heroes, mighty warriors whose power rivalled that of the gods themselves. He personally saw himself as more of a Cassandra – cursed to always tell the truth, but to never be believed. Why did they not listen to him?...

The dim sounds of artillery fire boomed through the sky, and it depressed him to think of the hundreds of young men senselessly giving up their lives. He pictured them being equipped with their combat rifles, grinning with pride as they were led calmly and obediently to their slaughter like sheep in an abattoir. They had probably signed up in an instant when the war began, tempted into a Valley of Death by the honour of fighting and perhaps even dying for the Keepers. It had only been since they declared war on Vismund Cygnus that he truly realised how their influence had spread like a plague through the common people.

Standing at ease in front of the window, his one eye regarded the softly humming factory that was Metropolis. The Inner Circle was weakening, no doubt about that. The sharply increasing rate of state disappearances and executions was a sure sign of their paranoia and fear before the war had even begun. The infrastructure was being steadily weakened, and he believed that neither it nor their politics would survive an onslaught from the Eurasians. The more patriotic and jingoistic of the Party members rejected the slightest hint of surrender and maintained that the troops would fight to the last man, but these were senile, deluded old men who refused to realise the truth. They hadn't heeded his sage advice before, and they refused to do so even now. It wouldn't be long before his comrades discovered that when you play with fire, you soon get burned…

A noise from his intercom jarred him from his meditation, the voice of his assistant. "Apologies for disturbing you, general, but Chairman Strokov requests your presence."

"Immediately?" Skarr asked.

"He was very specific about that, sir."

"Very well." There was a quiet click and the intercom fell silent. No doubt the Chairman would ask him for an up-to-date report on the conflict, to which he'd almost certainly reply that their defences were taking on water like a sinking ship, and that the Eurasians were getting closer to the city itself. He might even attempt to sway the Chairman towards a ceasefire, but he wasn't overly confident that he would succeed. The man was too deep-rooted in his own interests to even consider such a proposal. He donned his military cap and walked out of his office.

Central Core, or #1 Gibson Square to civilians, was a huge building, a twisting, labyrinth of corridors that appeared to go on for miles. Skarr always had a weird sense of déjà vu whenever he came along here. Even the shade of light-green wallpaper was constant throughout. The only variations were in the portraits that hung from the walls, paintings specially commissioned by the Inner Circle. Most other art was banned inside Metropolis – the Keepers called it 'degenerate', a tag that Skarr didn't personally agree with. He'd seen such works of art that had been confiscated, and he failed to see the political threat which the Keepers said they posed. The only portrait ever made of him hung on his office wall, but as he walked along the corridor, the stern, silent faces of figures past and present stared back at him from their hooks. There was even one of Felix Dzerzhinsky somewhere along here, a ruthless man whose brainchild was eventually to become the old Soviet KGB. The old Defence Secretary considered him a true visionary, hence his portrait adorning a wall of Central Core.

Eventually he reached the office doors of Chairman Vladimir Strokov, a frail old man rapidly approaching eighty. When he'd led the coup twenty years in true Leninist style, he was a man who, despite his age, refused to let adversity dampen his ardour. Now, although his passion had hardly subsided, like the rest of the Keepers, he had become gripped more and more by paranoia, demanding the arrest of anyone he saw fit.

The young woman at the desk stood up and saluted him. He acknowledged it with a nod and said, "Comrade Strokov requested my presence."

"He's waiting inside for you, General."

"Thank you." He parted the doors and walked inside the office.

Strokov's sunken features regarded him from the opposite end of the room. "Good afternoon, Comrade General," he murmured.

Skarr saluted. "Comrade Chairman."

"Have you news from the front?"

"Regretfully so, Chairman," Skarr replied, standing at ease. "I have received numerous dispatches from troops on the outskirts of the city. They say the Eurasians have broken through our lines, and they are mere steps away from reaching the city. At this rate, sir, within twelve hours…they will have taken it." Strokov pondered this for a moment. Skarr had cast his bait – now it time to reel in his catch. "Sir, may I urge you at this point to contact the Eurasians and broker a ceasefire? At this rate, there'll be nothing left for the Eurasians to conquer."

"A ceasefire will not be necessary, General," Strokov said. "There is a back-up plan, a battalion swooping in from the west. They'll catch the Eurasians totally unawares."

"With all due respect, sir –" Skarr wiped the sweat from his brow. " – to even attempt to withstand the Eurasians any further is madness. Steiner, among other commanders, has sent me a dispatch asking what to do next. I cannot grant them as I must ratify them with you, but to keep them out there makes no sense at all. The indication is clear that we have no chance of victory."

"I am sorry to hear of your distrust in your fellow commanders," Strokov said, coldly regarding him through his ivory-rimmed glasses. "It appears that honour is not among your highest priorities. One cannot attain honour through surrender."

"For me it is no longer a question of honour or dishonour," Skarr said. "It's a question of who lives to see the sun rise tomorrow. The lives of countless soldiers have been wasted in vain. There's possibility for heavy civilian casualties if – "

"The civilians have brought destruction upon themselves," Strokov interrupted him.

"Pardon me?"

"They have proved themselves too weak, and it is only a law of nature that they will be exterminated. I shall shed no tears if that becomes necessary."

"This is insane," Skarr spat, marching up to the desk. Damn it, why wouldn't this senile old fool open his eyes? "These aren't traitors like the Black Dogs, they are civilians! You are their leader, they look to you for guidance! You can't expect to forsake them when they need it most!"

"In wars like this, there are no civilians. Either they fight, or they die." Strokov paused to take a sip from his glass of water. "Send a dispatch to Steiner, and the other commanders. Tell them to hold their positions."

"Comrade Chairman, you can't possibly expect me to tell these men to simply await their death?"

"We will fight back against the Eurasians. The battalion from the west will wipe them out. Once that happens, we will march on towards the future."

"The only thing we are marching towards is a trap!" Skarr yelled at him, pounding his fist on the table. "We are not strong enough, they will _crush_ us! Can you not see that?"

"Are you questioning my orders, General?" Strokov asked venomously. "I believe I have made myself perfectly clear. Send dispatches to the front line. Tell the divisions to hold their positions."

Skarr stayed silent for a few seconds, in case his next statement landed him in front of a firing squad. "As you wish," he said, and saluted before turning around and exiting the room. When he returned to his own office and sat himself down in his chair, he considered the available options. One was to deliver the orders as Comrade Strokov had dictated them, the other to secure a ceasefire. Deep down, he knew for sure that it was the only way out, but to do it, he'd have to operate behind the backs of his colleagues. He was tempting fate here, but he could see no other option. He resolved to meet with the Commander-in-Chief of the Eurasian army and plead his case.

Another artillery blast made his window rattle in its frame. Silently, he sat back in his chair and began to plan it in his head.


	5. 3:00pm : 4:00pm

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

Hunched up in the corner of his room, Mac strained his sight to have another look at the clock. It had just gone 3:00, which meant that Mike would be here soon, and for that, he was glad, no, _grateful_. His older brother Terrence had locked him in here for the day, and was indolently lounging around in the next room. Usually on and with volume levels of seismic proportions, the TV remained unnervingly silent today – there was nothing to stare at but static. The confines around him were murky, but that was because he'd pulled the blind down over the window. Right now he didn't want to look outside at anything; he was scared. The crackle of distant gunfire had soothed him to sleep every night for the last week; occasionally he'd been woken up in the night by an exploding shell or something. His school had been closed for almost a fortnight now, no doubt to protect their next generation of teachers. _How thoughtful_, Mac thought cynically.

Terrence thought it was awesome, of course, the gullible idiot. He'd tried to sign up for military service himself, even procured fake papers so he seemed within the age limit, but they'd rumbled him and sent him home. The rejection had left him bitter, and most of his pent-up aggression he vented on Mac, partly because there was no-one else around, but mainly because he was just an all-round jerk. Mac sighed and stared up at the window. A little light shone through the slats in the blind, enough for him to be able to see where he was going…as if he were really going anywhere.

He hoped Mike would get here soon; she always made him feel better about things. A few months back, he didn't care that none of the kids or teachers at school really gave a rat's ass about him, or that Terrence would torture him at his discretion at home. What mattered to him was the period in between – the time he would go round to Foster's, see his friends and let all his fears fade into the ether, at least for a little while. Now he didn't even have _that_ anymore, and that left him more alone than ever before. But Mike would make everything better – she always did.

The sound of a key turning in the lock on his door suddenly reached his ears. He scrambled up and hid himself under his bed. The door was flung open as Terrence swaggered in. Mac held his breath as his brother scoured the room like a bloodthirsty predator, looking for him in all the usual places. "Mac," he said softly, "come out, come out, wherever you are…" His head turned, and his eyes sparkled maliciously when he caught sight of his little brother cowering under the bed. "Gotcha," he smirked triumphantly, and he seized Mac by the ankle.

"No!" Mac protested as Terence attempted to pull him out, "No, let go of me, Terrence!" He lashed out with his feet, hearing a satisfying thud as one struck Terrence smartly on the knuckles.

The teenager yelled with pain and swiftly withdrew his hand, rubbing his injury. His teeth bared themselves before he lunged for him again. "You little mother–"

But just before he could lay a hand on him again, there was a sharp knock at the door. Terrence's eyes strayed vaguely towards the hall, and he sighed in frustration. "Don't move," he growled at Mac before he got up and went to answer it. Hell, why not, he thought to himself, he'd give his frightened little brother a bit of a reprieve before he pounded the living crap out of him. He was on the verge of opening the door in his usual surly fashion and asking, "Yeah, what do you want?", when it was kicked down in front of him.

He barely had time to react as a group of armed men stormed in through the door and bowled him over. One hurried over and clamped a cloth over his mouth. Terrence struggled in vain against him as noxious fumes seeped in through his mouth, but the room began to spiral away from him, then everything went black.

"He's down," the soldier said, taking the chloroform-soaked cloth away from the youth's mouth.

"The younger one's got to be around here somewhere," Mac heard someone say from the other room. "Find him." Totally paralysed with fear, he watched helplessly as two men came in to the room and began to overturn the place, rummaging through cupboards and drawers in their attempts to find him. One threw back the covers on the bed, only for them to yield nothing. The soldier crouched down on his hands and knees and spotted him. "Found him," he alerted his comrade before grabbing Mac and dragging him from his hiding-place.

Mac was powerless to resist as one of the armed men bound his hands behind his back. He tried to call out to anyone who could hear him, still praying that Mike would come through the door any second now, but the other swiftly taped his mouth shut before lifting him up and carrying him back into the hall under one arm.

A man in front of him nodded and spoke into an intercom. "Hostage is secure."

"Excellent," the reply came. "Bring him in."

Mac's eyes widened. 'Bring him in'? Where to? Would they ever let him leave? He threshed as viciously as he could from side-to-side, but his captor held him tight as he hurried back down the flights of metal stairs, accompanied by the rest of the group. They ran up to a van parked just by the apartment block and bundled him into the back before getting in themselves. As the van took off, Mac raised his head and took one last glance out of the small window – all he could see was grey sky, occasionally punctured by a building or two. His head fell despondently back onto the floor of the van, and he tried to stop himself from crying as the van sped away into the unknown, taking him further and further away from the only person who could help him…

* * *

As she rounded the corner, Mike thrust her hands into her pockets to try and keep them warm. She was walking straight into a bitterly cold gust of wind which chilled her to the bone, but she put it out of her mind and wondered how Mac was doing. It was a bit selfish, and moreover, dangerous, for her to go and visit him at a time like this, but the entire city was surrounded by armed soldiers and tanks, and she felt an almost moral obligation to make sure he was all right. She had to admit, she was quite fond of him; the two of them shared a kind of platonic bond, like a brother and sister, and he was a smart and generally likeable kid. Besides, she thought she owed him after he saved her life.

One morning about six months ago, Mac had deliberately missed the school bus so he could pass by the Ground Zero that used to be Foster's. He'd stood in front of the cast-iron gates for a minute or so, _silently reflecting on it like a war memorial, before resuming his journey to school with a dejected sigh and a heavy heart._

_But as he passed by the woods that enclosed the grounds, he peered through the railings at what he thought was a person. He squinted to try and get a better view and realised that it was a girl. She looked in her mid-teens and her hair was coloured a lighter hue of red, almost reminding him of Frankie's. Without any further hesitation, he rushed back through the gates and made his way through the woods, parting branches and bushes while looking around for the body. Eventually he'd found her slumped at the base of a tree. She looked badly beaten up; her skin was deathly pale and there was a pool of dried blood on her hand. Her wrist felt cold as he pressed his fingers against her radial artery, searching for a pulse; it was there, but faint._

_At that point, Mike opened her eyes and groaned weakly. Mac let go of her wrist and waved his hand in front of her face. When she turned her head to look at him, he said, "Don't worry, everything's gonna be all right…"_

"_What?" Mike asked, "Where am…" and then gritted her teeth as her right arm throbbed with a stinging pain._

"_We need to get you to a hospital," Mac said, trying to get her up._

"_No," she said, "I can't."_

"_Why not?"_

"_I just…I just can't," Mike said. The kid didn't look ten years old yet, and she didn't have the time or the strength to explain her situation – her vision was fading again. "Listen," she said, taking her headset off and handing it to him, "use this. The people on the other end know who I am. Tell them where you are, and that you're waiting with Mike…" Her head flopped backwards again and her eyes closed._

_Checking nervously that she was still breathing, Mac pressed a button on the headset and spoke into the microphone, "Hello? Is…is there anyone there?"_

"_Hello?" a girl said on the other end of the line. "Mike? Is that you?"_

"_No," he said, glancing towards the road. "My name is Mac Lewin, and…and I'm with Mike now. She told me to contact you."_

"_She told you?"_

"_Yeah," Mac answered. "She's hurt pretty bad…"_

"_OK," the girl said, "where are you now?"_

"_I'm at Foster's…" Force of habit. He forgot Foster's wasn't there any more. "Uh, I'm at the place where Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends used to be."_

"_OK," she told him, "stay where you are and keep the headset on. We'll be there soon."_

"_OK," he said, and then switched the set off. He'd waited with Mike for about fifteen minutes, occasionally waking her and giving her some water from his backpack, when the girl's voice rang in his ear again._

"_Hello? Mac?"_

"_Yeah?" he answered._

"_We're at the gate. Are you inside?"_

"_Yeah, turn right and head straight on through the woods," he said._

"_Got it," she acknowledged, and clicked off. _

_A minute later, about four people broke through the undergrowth and surrounded Mike. One of them pressed two fingers against her temple and said, "Heart's still goin'. We need to get her back to medical." With that, two of them lifted her up, supporting her on her shoulders, and carried her back through the woods._

_A black-haired girl, presumably the one he'd just talked to, came over to him and said, "Thanks, Mac. You've done us a big, big favour."_

"_Who are you guys?" Mac asked instantly, eager for some answers._

_The girl shifted uneasily. "I can't tell you," she replied. "If you knew, we'd be in danger, you'd be in danger."_

_Mac understood, and walked back out to the road with her with no further questions. As the van drove off, the conundrum still circulated in his mind, but he tried not to think about it._

Back on arrival at Division, Mike had been taken straight into the infirmary with a bullet in the arm, hypothermia and dehydration. She'd also suffered a slight concussion and partial amnesia – she couldn't remember anything from about a week before she was found. From what Intel was able to piece together, she'd been set up by the Keepers, ambushed and attacked, and then left exposed to the elements in the wood. She'd been put on an IV tube immediately, and it had been a week before she could even walk again. But when she was discharged, she found his address and went over to find him. The quizzical look on his face as he answered the door swiftly disappeared when he recognised her.

Over time, she'd gotten to know him a little better, and he began to seem more and more like a little brother to her. His life seemed so solitary, especially after he told her about his friends at Foster's and what happened to them. His mother was out working most of the day, heaven knew where, and his moronic older brother seemed to have no better way to while away his time than make Mac's life miserable. It was the least she could do to make him feel that he still had someone to talk to, to confide in when times were hard. She was going to do that today.

A thunderclap rumbled across the sky. Crossing the road quickly, Mike looked up at the apartment block that Mac lived in. Not exactly bleak, but all the others around it looked the same, like one sprawling, concrete prison. She climbed up the stairs and turned left on the third floor, occasionally glancing down through the drizzle into the heart of the city. It looked as grey and faceless as it always did, and the weather dealt it no favours. Something generally didn't feel right round here – it was far too quiet, almost as if the residents had been forcibly silenced. Feeling a little insecure, she turned the corner.

Mac's front door was ajar. She edged a little nearer, thinking (hoping) that someone hadn't shut it carefully enough. Her pulse began to race when she saw that the lock was broken – the door had been kicked in. Pressing herself up against the wall, Mike drew her gun. She didn't want to take it to Mac's house, but with everything that was happening today, she'd also been reluctant to leave without it. She counted to three and then pointed the gun through the open doorway. She could see no-one inside, but the place had been smashed up a bit. A table or two was knocked over, a picture frame lay smashed on the ground, but no signs of life. She crept inside, shifting her aim at any sound she heard. Her foot snagged on something, and she looked down to see Mac's older brother slumped against the wall, eyes closed and inanimate. Sweat began to trickle down her forehead. She was about to check if he was still alive before the phone rang.

Hesitantly she listened to it ring a few times before picking up the receiver and saying, "Hello?"

"Hello, Mike," a voice replied. It was definitely a man's voice, deep and resonant with a defined English accent. _What the…_, Mike thought, surveying the room for cameras hidden in the ceiling, but the voice continued. "Doubtless you'll be wondering where your young friend might be."

"Who are you?" Mike demanded, trying to keep her composure. "What have you done with him?"

"Rest assured, he's in perfectly safe hands. At least, for now."

"Tell me where he is!" Mike yelled.

"Come and claim him," the voice challenged her. "The Black Dogs are always prepared for someone like you."

Mike's heart missed a beat.

"It's now 3:42," the voice continued. "You know where we're holding him. If you want him, you'll come within the next three hours, or he dies." With that, the man hung up. Mike let the receiver fall from her hand, and she needed to lean against the wall to support herself. The Black Dogs had Mac, and they were threatening to kill him…she couldn't comprehend that. He was only nine years old – what could they have wanted with him? She just couldn't understand why they'd submit a kid that age to something so terrifying.

Rising slowly to her feet again, she tried to get a grip on the situation and figure it out. Even for the Black Dogs, this didn't look like an on-the-fly job to her – they'd planned this in advance. If it was a ransom demand, then why did they want Mac? And why did they call _her_ instead of his mother? Whoever he was, the man on the other end of the line had called her by name. He knew she would answer, so the Dogs must have known she was coming round this afternoon. Early yesterday evening, she'd called Mac, just to see how he was coping; he told her he was scared with all the fighting going on, so she promised to drop by the next day. The Black Dogs must have tapped the call, got all the information they needed, then sent out a team to snatch him before she got there.

But then _why_ did they take Mac in the first place? Since they'd known she would come here, perhaps they expected Mike to follow them to try and get him back. She sensed a trap, but it didn't change the fact that they still had him, and that she still had a vital choice to make – either get him out of the woods, or leave him there for the wolves. She wiped a tear from her eye before exiting the room and walking back out into the cold. Her coat billowed out slightly in the wind behind her as she made her way back towards Division. The world was a formidable, scary place; she received her wake-up call on that old adage long ago, but just then, it became clear again just how formidable and scary it was.


	6. 4:00pm : 5:00pm

Whoa, this took far longer than I meant. Sorry for the wait - exams almost over, so I'll be able to spend a little more time on this in the near future. Oh, and Dib's full name I'm still not sure about - didn't like 'Dib Membrane' so opted for 'Driscoll' instead.Enjoy!

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

**

* * *

**

There was a buzz, barely audible, as the door unlocked. Mike took a brief, precautionary glance around before she pushed it open and went through, but she needn't have worried. Their main point of entry lay obscured from view in an abandoned industrial park, which was so remote and had fallen into disuse and disrepair so long ago that the chance of there being spies or cameras up here were extremely slim. Nevertheless, they hadn't taken any risks when setting up this place – they had six different transmitters in locations around the city to relay information to agents out in the field. Although wired back to Division itself, any signals received and triangulated by outside forces always led to these six transmitters, and no matter how many the Keepers destroyed, they always installed more in different places. To all but themselves, Division's actual location was a mystery.

Gazing down the narrow stairway it led to was like staring into a deep well; even with the door open, she couldn't see even halfway down. It didn't usually bother her – she'd gone up and down these stairs so many times that she knew where every step was and never lost her footing – but nevertheless, her hand groped in the darkness for the corrugated iron panels that lined the tunnel. When they started up Division before she'd even joined, they were forced to pilfer whatever materials they could, including sheets of metal lying outside the old power station. As she came to the bottom of the stairs, she reached a fork in the corridor; one direction went right, which led underneath the industrial park. The other went left and led to Division, but its entrance was covered by one of the metal panels. It was held in place by an electromagnet which, when deactivated, would allow it to simply swing open. It had its flaws, but this was as inconspicuous as they could manage.

She pulled the panel back into place behind her, and there was another miniscule buzz as the electromagnet activated again. With that, she headed down the tunnel that led to Division and came out just in front of Intel. Above it was the point they called 'the Cupola', the apex of the entire compound, and Intel was placed below it in a circle about twenty meters in diameter. Mike turned left to head up the stairs towards Field Ops, but ran into Dib Driscoll en route.

"Mike," he said, noticing her, "Double-D wants to know what you came up with this afternoon."

"All right, I'll head over there now," Mike replied. She was so lost in thought that her response was somewhat muted, but she hoped Dib wouldn't notice. Unfortunately for her, he did.

"You feeling all right?" he asked her.

Mike paused. "I'm fine," she answered. "I've just got a lot on my mind, we all do. It's nothing." He nodded, somewhat reluctantly – his eyes betrayed the fact that he wasn't totally convinced, although they looked as distant as they usually were. Dib was a very troubled soul, and, for all he and his sister Gaz had gone through, she couldn't blame him. Their father, Professor Membrane, like many scientists of his calibre, was taken away by the Keepers and forced to work for them. He became one of their top researchers, but having been deprived the whole time of seeing his children, his achievements meant nothing to him. Eventually, either out of despair or defiance, he poisoned himself. A couple of days later, his death was announced on the evening news. Dib and Gaz never quite got over the loss, but instead of retreating into a pit of self-pity, they resolved to help bring down the system that had taken him away from them. Although he always seemed very indifferent and introverted to her, he was also highly intelligent and a great asset, just a little removed from the world. "Has Double-D told you about what's going on?"

"Yeah, he just briefed me," Dib answered. "Looks like I'm running things down here, right?"

"You and Kimiko Toho. Think you can handle it?"

Dib shrugged. "I'll do my best," he answered, and they both passed each other and went their separate ways, Dib towards Intel, Mike towards Double-D's office. Well, 'office', for want of a better word – it was more like a barren room, with transparent walls and a desk.

She walked through the door, and Double-D looked up and acknowledged her. "What do you have for me?" he asked.

"Ideally, the pinch needs to be set off at 9 o' clock. That way we have an adequate amount of time to prepare and reach Cicatriz. Sam, Tucker and I will set out from Division at 6:00, arrive at the laboratory a little before 8:00. From there, Tucker can hack into the security matrix and disable it until the EMP's effect wears off."

"You realise that when the EMP goes off," Double-D questioned, "your electronics get fried as well?"

"It's a little bit of a contingency plan," Mike admitted, "but we may have to simply go out via the route we came in. In the light, they won't be able to tell themselves from each other, let alone us."

"All right. So the pinch needs to be detonated at 9:00?" Mike nodded. "OK. I'll accompany a team down into the sewer so we can plant it underneath Cicatriz, or in the immediate vicinity. Then it's up to you to get Danny out of there."

"I understand."

"All right. I need to brief Sam and Tucker about what's happening on our end. Keep me posted, OK?" Double-D requested, getting up and accompanying her back through the door.

She smiled thinly. "Sure." He nodded in acknowledgement and headed over to Intel. Mike watched him for a second before returning to Field Ops. She admired him greatly, not only as a mentor, someone who taught her everything he knew, but also as a friend and confidante, someone she _knew_ she could trust. She sighed as she walked through the door to her own station and sat down, trying to comprehend everything that had come up in the last three hours.

Almost overwhelmed by it all, she closed her eyes, but as soon as she did, she saw an image of Mac, sitting in the middle of a darkened room, blindfolded and gagged, arms bound behind his back. All of a sudden, a faceless stranger approached him from behind and undid his handcuffs. Mac flexed his arms a little before bringing them round in front of him, and Mike realised that his hands were gone. All that remained were bloody stumps, loosely wrapped in clean white linen to stem the flow of blood, but the cloth began to rapidly turn a livid scarlet colour, and before she knew it, the cloth was saturated and a puddle of blood was forming on the cold stone floor…Mac's blood…

Her eyes snapped open again. A band of sweat was beginning to cool on her forehead, and she slowly wiped it off before sitting forward and holding her head in her hands. She felt somehow responsible, and she almost wished that Mac hadn't found her, that he hadn't noticed her, and then he wouldn't be in this mess. She didn't subscribe to the clichéd idea that fate, kismet, whatever had made their paths converge like this, but something had, and now he needed her help more than ever. She knew as well as anyone that the Black Dogs' attitude towards human life was indifferent and indiscriminate; they had no code of ethics. Their sole sense of morals lay in what _they_ believed was right, the downfall of the Keepers; and if that meant kidnapping a nine-year-old boy, perhaps even torturing and killing him, then so be it. Their current leader, Marcus Moore, was only known to her by name, but she also knew that, just like the Keepers, the Black Dogs were vulnerable to their own power struggles. You had to be pretty damn ruthless to head the Dogs up, spread such fear amongst the recruits that their loyalty to you would be unquestioned, and Moore was evidently no exception.

Mike grimaced, frustrated at the position she'd been thrust into. She had a real dilemma on her hands. If she went to get Mac from the Black Dogs, she'd be leaving Sam and Tucker to infiltrate Cicatriz _and _get the prisoner out by themselves; but if she went with them instead, she'd surely be leaving Mac to die, and she couldn't bear to have his death haunt her conscience, especially after he'd saved _her_ life. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking straight into a trap, but this was the only chance of getting Mac out alive, for both of them.

A glance at the clock told her that the time was 4:31, leaving her just over two hours, and she could be there in an hour. But she needed something to protect herself – her pistol wouldn't do by itself – and she needed a plan of the Black Dogs' compound, quickly. Without a moment to lose, she surged up and headed back out through the glass door, along the hallway and down the stairs to Intel. From within the deep confines of her mind came the faint whisper of Mac's voice, pleading desperately for help, but she shook it off as she wandered alone along the corridors.

* * *

Further away, at Central Core, General Skarr's feelings of moral ambivalence were not nearly as conflicting as he strode towards the main doors. His decision had been made, his path chosen – he was acting on behalf of the people, not his political superiors. He didn't expect to gain any sort of personal redemption or glory from the Eurasians, he was in too deep for that, but not in so deep that he couldn't make a difference when it really counted. He knew there was no way they could fight back – Strokov and the Inner Circle were moving troops that existed only on paper. Even with their 'we few, we happy few, we band of brothers' spiel, the front-line commanders realised it was useless, but were powerless to retreat, because even in situations like these, the Keepers had ways of finding people who did such things. 

He had told his assistant that he was not available to speak to anyone, and neglected to answer the lad's question of where his business was taking him just then. It was better that nobody knew, not just yet. The two guards on the door opened a door each with one arm and saluted him with the other. He saluted back as he walked out into Metropolis, occasionally shielding his ears as a particularly loud explosion rang out from the outskirts of the city. Looking around him, he could see families, most of them just mothers and children, huddling together in their front rooms for warmth and personal security. From across the road, a man in shabby and tattered rags staggered over to him and fell against his shoulder, leering up at him with a drunken smile. Skarr flinched a little in disgust – the man's breath and clothing reeked of vodka and cheap tobacco smoke.

"You see that?" the drunkard slurred, gesturing in the vague direction of the fighting, "It's the end of the world!" He held a liquor bottle in front of Skarr's face, shaking it and sloshing the transparent liquid around inside. "C'mon…have one last drink with me. Won't hurt you…" He began laughing maniacally as Skarr eventually lost patience and gave him a rough shove. The man swayed and continued to lurch down the street, cackling and announcing the coming of Armageddon to the dirty grey buildings around him.

Straightening his cap, the general walked on until he was safely out of reach of Central Core, then dialled a number into his phone. The monotonous tone rang a few times before the receiver picked up. "General Steiner."

"Steiner, this is Skarr," he replied. "I'm on my way up to the front line. I need you to open up a channel with the Eurasians so I can talk to their commander-in-chief direct. Tell them that you're acting under my authority, they'll understand. If not, I'll have to persuade them myself."

"Of course, General," Steiner acknowledged. "I can have it ready by the time you get here."

"Excellent. I'll be there momentarily."

* * *

"Sam!" 

Sam Manson was practically immersed in thought until someone called her name. She blinked a couple of times, a little dazed, before turning to see whose it was. Walking towards her desk was Kimiko Toho, another one of the analysts who effectively ran Intel, along with her and Tucker. "I sent you a schematic of the Cicatriz laboratory to load onto Tucker's PDA. Double-D told me he's coming by in a minute to finalise everything."

"Oh, right…thanks, Kimiko," Sam muttered; half her thought processes were still preoccupied with worrying about Danny, and her voice showed it.

"Are you OK?" Kimiko asked, frowning a little in concern.

She got up from her seat, wiping her brow with the back of her hand before she replied, "No, I'm not OK." She paused. She was grateful she had someone like Kimiko to talk to about this. The two of them had become pretty good friends, having joined Division at around the same time as each other. She was a good listener, she could always think of the right thing to say. "It's just…I always believed that Danny was still alive, and I still do, but…just seeing what they did to him…it was horrible…"

"Hey," Kimiko said compassionately, patting her shoulder, "he'll be all right. Dib and I'll be back here, we'll do everything to make sure Danny gets out. OK?"

Sam smiled gratefully as Double-D and Tucker approached the desk. "Sam, Kim," Double-D said, causing the two of them to turn their heads. "I just want to go through the plan with you one more time." Sam nodded as Double-D pointed to the plan on the screen. His finger traced over the glass until he reached what would have been a door. "That's where you'll go in. Normally there's a keypad-activated lock on the door, but after the security system goes offline, all doors like that will deactivate. We're pretty sure that Danny's being held here" – he pointed to another room on the schematic – "but you may have to go the long way round to get inside."

"What happens when we get there?" Sam asked.

"The EMP's gonna be detonated at 9:00," Double-D replied. "Then you'll have about twenty minutes to get Danny out. I'll be underneath with the teams in the sewer, I'll keep in contact with the three of you. That's all you need to know, I'll make sure you're properly equipped before you go." With that, he gave them a nod and returned to his station. Kimiko did the same and Sam went off with Tucker towards Field Ops.

As they did so, an analyst by the name of Jack Spicer warily watched them leave and waited until they were out of sight. He got up from his workstation and wandered down the corridor directly ahead of him, turned right and carried on until he reached a set of stairs that led down towards the generators. When he was halfway down the stairs, he took out his cell phone and dialled a number into it. After a few rings, a voice answered, "Worff."

"This is Spicer," Jack said, checking that no-one was listening before he continued.

"You're sure this line is completely secure?" Defence Minister Worff asked.

Keeping his voice as low as he could, Jack replied, "Yes, as always. The uplink is encrypted – it can't be traced. I've got information for you I think you might find useful. But I need you to promise me something."

"You'll be duly paid for your efforts, Mr. Spicer, rest assured."

"Aside from that. I want you to grant me a safe passage out of here. If this goes down…" He peered cautiously over the top step. "…everyone in here will be looking for me."

"These are delicate times, Mr. Spicer," the Defence Minister replied. "I sincerely hope you do not plan to mislead us."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Spicer growled.

"Given recent events, I'm in doubt over your reliability as an informant," Worff said. "There's nothing to stop me from thinking that you're purely waiting for us to get you a free ticket out of there, and you'll give us any half-baked rumour just to do it."

"You think I'd be risking my ass down here just to spin you a lie?" Spicer replied irritably. He had neither the time nor the patience to try and convince Worff in case he was discovered, especially since they all knew that he delivered what he promised. "This is uranium-235 for people like you, and I'm offering it to you on a silver fuckin' platter. Now do you want it or not?"

There was an audible sigh. "Tell me," Worff replied wearily.

* * *

Mike closed the door to the Armaments chamber, listening out expectantly for the click as it locked again. She stashed the gun in its holster and secreted the extra clips in her jacket pockets as she came out from the South Wing in front of Intel. Thankfully for her, Sam and Tucker weren't there; no awkward questions meant no awkward answers. She was the only one who knew about this, and she wanted it to stay that way. 

There was a workstation nearby, a laptop folded into the wall, but she wanted to remain incognito to get there. She veered to the left and headed quickly around the edge of the circle of computers. The one she needed was situated further inside the North Wing, a couple of corridors down. She turned the corner and, quickly scanning her surroundings, spied the workstation about ten feet away from her. Fortunately it was unmanned. She booted it up and rummaged through the data on it, tapping furiously on the keys as she did so, until a schematic of the Black Dogs' compound appeared on the screen. Hurriedly she withdrew her PDA from her pocket and jacked it into the side of the computer, fidgeting impatiently as it transferred the plans, before removing it and shutting the station down. She continued in the same direction down the corridor, before turning left and following the hallways until they led to another exit point, left unguarded because it was so rarely used.

Her hand hovered in front of the keypad, on the verge of punching in the code, but her gaze was drawn back over her shoulder, back down the long corridors she'd just come up. _Don't worry, Mac, _she assured him telepathically, _I'm coming, I'll get you out of there…_ She uttered, "I promise…" out loud before entering the code and stepping out through the door into the frigid, January air.


	7. 5:00pm : 6:00pm

Whoa, this one took forever. Sorry for the wait, but I hope this makes up for it. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

Countless thoughts were rushing headlong through Sam's mind as she and Tucker emerged from the armaments chamber, guns loaded and holstered. Being an Intel analyst, Sam had little experience when it came to operations like this; like everyone else she'd had basic arms training, but she'd been out in the field on only a few occasions and she didn't have the natural instincts of people like Mike or Dib. Personally she didn't feel comfortable with holding a gun in her hand either, something designed to injure or even kill people, but regrettably, it came with the job and she had to accept that. It was primitive, but inexorable. 

Still she found herself unable to totally concentrate on the task at hand; reflections of Danny continually crept into her subconscious thought, harrowing images of him being slowly tortured to death within the confines of that chamber. She shuddered at what must still have been going through his head, all those feelings of dread and fear and anguish, not even remotely aware of what might happen to him if she and Tucker failed to get to him first. It was like what she'd discussed with Kimiko earlier; she'd never doubted for a minute that Danny was still alive, and she felt a little relieved when Double-D had confirmed that. But she'd had no idea that Danny was being secretly experimented on, and witnessing those inhuman creatures perform them on him felt like a kick in the stomach. What Double-D had warned them about was also horrifyingly true; the Keepers aimed to use Danny as some sort of secret weapon. If they couldn't decipher his newly-discovered genetic code, they'd sooner destroy him than let the Eurasians accomplish what they couldn't. Sam told herself she'd never let that happen, but she couldn't bear to leave him inside that prison any longer.

As they reached the staircase that led up towards Field Ops, Tucker veered to his left. "Where are you going?" Sam asked.

Tucker paused and turned around. "Over to Intel. I need to configure my PDA so I can hack into the lab's security mainframe and shut it down."

"All right. I'm going upstairs to find Mike. Meet me back here, OK?"

A nod. "OK."

While he advanced into Intel, Sam continued up the stairs and in the direction of Field Ops. She hadn't seen Mike since they'd drawn up the plans a couple of hours ago, but she would feel more secure in the knowledge that an experienced operative would accompany them. She'd expected to find her in her room, but she wasn't there. The search around the rest of Field Ops yielded similar results. Untroubled by this, she dialled Mike's cell and waited for a response, but the call cut out after two rings. She tried again, only for the same thing to happen. Now she felt a little concerned. The electronics and transmitters in the ceiling made sure that the signal wasn't affected by Division being underground. Why wasn't she answering? She called Double-D to try and find out.

"Edd White?"

"Edd, it's Sam Manson. Have you seen Mike?"

"Not for an hour or so, why?"

"I can't find her or get in touch with her. The connection always terminates after a few seconds."

"All right, stay on the line. I'll try and contact her myself."

"Got it." She pressed the receiver a little more to her ear and waited anxiously for a minute until Double-D's voice returned. "No, Sam, I'm not getting anything, either."

"That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence."

"Me neither. I'll contact Dib, get some people to search the building. If she's here, we'll find her."

"All right. Thanks, Double-D," Sam said before hanging up. What she'd just said to him was a gross understatement; she felt absolutely terrified, so much so that her hands were now visibly trembling. "Danny…" she whispered as images from the video flooded back into her memory, stills of every scream of pain…

As she went back to Intel to meet Tucker, she told herself to get a grip, but it did little good. If Mike _had_ left her and Tucker in the lurch, what were they supposed to do? They'd have to manage by themselves, but how?...

* * *

Patiently waiting at her workstation for the requested data to appear on the monitor, Tootie Palmer glanced over the top of her computer as Timmy Turner passed her by again. He was always scurrying around the place, like a mouse in a cage, from Intel to any corner of the compound and back again. She smiled to herself. She preferred not to think it was love at first sight, and yet occasionally, she suspected it might be. Perhaps it was out of pity, she was unsure, but ever since Double-D had brought Timmy in all those months ago, cold, shivering and orphaned, she'd taken an instant liking to him. In some ways, the two of them were kindred spirits; her parents weren't dead, but they paid so little attention to her that they might as well have been. Her older sister Vicky was part of some youth military corps, and it was her terrifying presence in the house that eventually drove Tootie out. Somehow, she'd ended up at Division and back then, she didn't care if she had to do the most menial tasks imaginable; as long as she was away from there, away from Vicky, then it didn't matter. 

On the day she first saw him, she went down to medical just to check if he was OK. Just viewing him sitting alone in that room, staring blankly at nothing, was too much for her to bear. Almost without thinking, she'd pushed open the door and asked him how he was feeling (it was a dumb question, but what else could she ask him about? The weather?) before tentatively taking a seat beside him. According to Timmy, Double-D had basically said to him that he'd be safe in Division, that he'd be among those willing to help him. At that point, she'd introduced herself and offered her support, which he gratefully accepted.

Tootie watched as Timmy delivered whatever message he was sent to give, and then as he milled around idly, probably waiting for his next assignment. Without hesitating, she called to him. "Timmy!"

His head turned in her direction, and she waved to beckon him over. "Hey, Tootie," he said quietly as he approached her computer. "Something up?"

"No, not really," she said, a little meekly. "Just wanted to…talk to you, that's all." She shifted in her seat. "I mean…if you've got a minute?"

Timmy shrugged. "Sure." Leaning against her desk, he asked, "What do you wanna talk about?"

"Well, everything that's going on today," Tootie said, brushing her hair back. "Those people up there, the people who've destroyed our way of life…soon they'll be gone. Everything's gonna be different…better, for all of us…"

"Really?" Timmy asked sceptically, looking up toward the ceiling. "It doesn't feel like that to me."

"How _does_ it feel, then?"

"I don't know," he muttered, and he sighed. "I don't understand it, Tootie. My parents never did anything wrong, they weren't criminals or anything…why did someone have to take them away from me? I can't go home, because if those guys find me, they'll kill me. I feel like I've lost so much, and I just don't understand any of it…" He trailed off and looked back up at Tootie. She looked back at him sympathetically, and he felt a little guilty for venting this pent-up aggression at her. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, "didn't mean to sound self-obsessed…"

"It's OK," Tootie said, softly laying a hand on his arm. "You're right…you've lost so much because of these people. No-one can blame you for feeling that way." Timmy sighed and managed a thin smile. Maybe it was because he felt slightly better now, or that he was here talking to her, but Tootie felt her own smile widen a little.

* * *

"All right, Double-D, I'll get right on it." 

"Great, Dib. Thanks." Double-D hung up as he headed towards the area of the compound where their EMP bombs were kept. This chamber was very tightly monitored, both by computer-operated locks and armed guards, and such an important part of Division that even he had to obtain security clearance to get inside. If just one was detonated inside the complex, it could generate an electromagnetic wave wide enough to paralyse Division, and they could never afford for that to happen. He presented the guards with his clearance and let them double-check it before they allowed him in. A technician in a white-and-blue hooped cardigan came over to him as he stepped in the doorway, a girl named Lain Iwakura with a distinctive forelock of her brown hair that framed the left side of her face.

"Good evening, Double-D," she said, shaking his hand.

"Evening, Lain," Double-D replied. "I'm here to examine the EMP we need to use tonight."

"It's all set up and ready," Lain said, heading off in its direction. "Right this way." Edd followed her calmly as she led him between shelves stacked with various electronic devices and components. He liked Lain a lot, and thought she was an extremely valuable addition to their side. She was a very shy and introverted girl, but if there was anyone in the compound who knew a thing or two about electronics, it was her. Lain pointed out the one that matched Double-D's specifications. "This is the one of the most powerful transportable modules we have. We keep the more powerful ones here to purge all our data banks if the compound gets discovered."

"What range and time can it give?"

"This one can cause a blackout within a one-and-a-half-mile radius. If Cicatriz is directly above the epicentre, effects can last up to twenty minutes."

"Good," Double-D said, nodding his head as he weighed up the logistics, "that's very good. How's it programmed?"

"Here, I'll show you," Lain answered, withdrawing a screwdriver from her pocket and loosening the screws on a small metal panel. "Behind this are six wires, each coloured differently, which need to be cut in a certain order. This sets off a timer which counts down for three minutes."

"All right," Double-D acknowledged, kneeling down to look inside at the wiring. His heart sank – they had a problem. "Lain," he asked, "what colour are these wires?"

Lain gave him a bemused look. "Why? Something wrong?"

"Yes," he said, "I'm partially colour-blind." Lain looked at him as if asking for an explanation, so he gave one. "A couple of years ago, I sustained a head injury which must have damaged some nerves. I can still tell red from blue, black from white, but I can't distinguish between black and purple, yellow and grey." He mused on it for a brief moment; there wasn't enough time to change the wiring, and he knew that with everything else on his mind, he'd never be able to memorise the order.

"If you want," Lain offered, "I could come with you and wire it myself."

"In any other scenario, I'd agree," Double-D said. "I'm very grateful, but you've done some good work for us, Lain. I don't wanna lose you just yet." Lain smiled a little at the compliment, but Edd's mind was still daunted by the issue. She was far too valuable a technician for him to risk sending her out into the field, especially as she had no experience in field work at all. There were few other people in Division who he could really trust with a job like this, but many of them already had other parts to play in the operation. Except…

He got out his cell phone, dialled a number and waited. It was mad, it was dangerous, even deadly…but it would work.

* * *

Back over in Intel, Kimiko Toho heard her phone ring, and she answered it. Across the room from her own conversation, and unaware of it, Timmy and Tootie continued theirs, only to be interrupted when Kimiko came over. 

"Sorry to butt in, guys," she said. "Timmy, I just got a call from Double-D. He's over in the vault where we keep the EMP bombs and he wants you over there. He says he'll meet you at the door."

"Oh, OK," Timmy said, a little confused. What did Double-D want him over there for?

"You know where it is?"

"Yeah. Down the corridor from armaments, right?"

Kimiko nodded. "Right on."

"OK, I'll get over there now." She nodded again in acknowledgement, and as she returned to her station, he looked back at Tootie and said quietly, "I'll talk to you later, all right?"

She smiled. "That's fine." He smiled back and headed off towards the South Wing, and she watched him go before she turned to her computer and got back to work.

The journey there was a little more arduous than Timmy had thought. He got lost twice in the huge labyrinth of corridors before finally coming out in front of a large, reinforced steel door. Double-D was there waiting for him. The first question that came to his mind was, "Why did you call me here?"

The door opened, and he followed Double-D through it as he explained the situation. "To set off the EMP, there's a group of wires inside the device, three of which need to be cut in a certain order. Unfortunately, I can't tell the colours apart, even with a torch." He looked at Timmy awkwardly. This didn't feel right, even if it was for all the right reasons. "I know what I'm asking you to do sounds strange and frightening, but I need you to come with me and cut the wires on this bomb."

As they entered the actual room, Timmy struggled to comprehend what he'd just heard. "Me? No way, I can't do that…"

"Timmy, I wouldn't normally ask this of you." Double-D stopped and kneeled down to look Timmy in the eye. "But I really need your help. You're a capable kid, and I don't feel there's anyone else I can trust to do this except you. I'm not going to force you to do it, but I could really use another set of eyes."

Timmy's gaze fell to the floor as he thought this through. It seemed so simple, but he still didn't fully understand what was going on. The prospect of doing something he'd never done before, especially something that could get him killed, was daunting, to say the least. But there was also a great responsibility in what he had to do, and how he handled that responsibility could affect how the rest of the day's events unfolded, for better or for worse. Double-D had done so much for him, though, and despite his fear, it was wrong for him to refuse.

Edd prompted him for an answer. "Timmy?"

Looking back up at him, he said, "I'll do it."

"Are you sure? Don't feel you have to say 'yes' –"

"I'll do it," Timmy reiterated, preferring to commit himself to this now before he had second thoughts. "I want to help you, but I'm just scared of what might happen to me, or you…"

Double-D smiled and gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you," he said, then straightened up and continued with Timmy back towards the EMP, where Lain was still waiting patiently. "To be honest, I'm no less scared than you are. But don't worry, you won't go in there by yourself. I'll be with you every step of the way." He introduced Lain and added, "She'll fill you in on what you need to know."

"You'll see this panel comes off," Lain explained, slotting the panel into place and removing it again. She shone a torch inside the EMP bomb. "Inside are six wires, and you'll need to cut the red, purple and black ones. It has to be in that precise order, or the connection gets severed." Timmy nodded to show he understood. "When you cut the last wire, a timer starts counting down on this display. That gives you three minutes until detonation."

"Three minutes?" Timmy asked. "But what if we don't get out of range in time?"

"No problem," Lain said calmly. "Electromagnetic waves only affect electronic devices, they pass through the human body without causing damage. Unless you have a pacemaker or something, you'll be fine."

"Think you can do it?" Double-D asked.

Timmy took a last look at the wires, then turned back to Double-D and replied, "Yeah. Positive."

* * *

There was nothing but darkness to greet him as Mac slowly opened his eyes. He could hear his blood pumping in his ears. This was no dream; he was still in the middle of the same barren, darkened room, and the coarse fibres of the sack that covered his head scratched against his face. 

He didn't know how long he'd spent in the back of that van, but he'd been too scared for the passage of time to seem relevant. He hadn't moved a muscle for the entire duration for fear that one of those men would shoot him if he did. The only movement he made was occasionally glancing up through the small window, only to see cloud banks massing overhead. Eventually the van stopped, and his captors bundled him out and forcefully marched him towards a building. From what he could see, it looked like a large military bunker, its perimeter encompassed by a chain-link fence and watched by armed soldiers. Some had guard dogs, which they restrained as they snapped eagerly at his heels. They took him inside through a back exit and led him down some more corridors before they unlocked a door and shoved him through the doorway. The room it led to had no windows, and no source of light. Suddenly, everything became darker as they thrust the jute sack over his head. The men shared a few laughs; he was so small that the bag almost completely obscured him – only his feet were still visible. Then they sat him down in the middle of the floor and went out, shutting and locking the door behind them.

He tried to call out to someone, but the tape over his mouth muffled his efforts. He sighed in defeat and lay on his side. No-one had heard him, but there was probably no-one he knew who _could_ help him. He felt isolated and lost, and so far away from home; for all he knew, he might as well have been in Siberia.

Just then, his ears pricked as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, gradually getting louder and louder…then the sound of a door being unlocked, and then opened. Someone came over to him and whisked the bag off him. At the same time, a light turned on, temporarily blinding him, but unable to shield the glare with his hands, he simply squinted and allowed his eyes to slowly adjust to the light. The blurred figure of a man came into view, a man standing over him and watching him. As Mac's vision became clearer, so did the man's face; he had a chiselled expression, with deep-set green eyes and black hair. There was a scar that ran from just below his right eye down towards his mouth. Mac groaned, and the man's mouth curved upwards in a thin smile.

"Hello, Mac," he greeted him. "You probably won't know who I am. My name is Marcus Moore; I head up a group called the Black Dogs. You may have heard of them."

Mac's blood ran cold. He definitely _had_ heard of them; if there was any sort of terrorist attack in Metropolis, the Black Dogs were usually behind it. And now he was inside their compound, and face to face with their _leader_. _Mike_, he prayed desperately, _help me! Please help me!_

"So…" Moore continued. "You consider Mike Masinski a friend, do you?" Mac didn't answer. "Do you really think she would jeopardise what she's planning, simply to come and rescue you?" Again, he stayed silent, but it raised a whole load of other questions. He knew Mike was involved in _something_, but she'd never told him about it. Whenever he asked, she changed the subject. But what did he mean by 'jeopardise what she's planning'? What _would_ she be planning…?

Moore looked at his watch. It read 5:43 – plenty of time for Masinski to get here. Looking back at Mac, he said, "We'll soon see if you're right," before he turned and walked out of the room. As he tried to get his mind round everything, the lights went off, and Mac felt someone pull the sack back over his face. Everything became dark again as he heard someone slam and lock the door, and he was alone again. In the darkness, the dimensions of the room seemed to stretch out over an infinite distance in every direction, and yet at the same time, he felt trapped inside a glass box that was barely bigger than he was. He was too scared to start crying, but he hoped Mike could somehow understand as he silently begged her to hurry before it was too late.

* * *

As Double-D, Lain and Timmy made the final preparations for the EMP, Sam nervously paced back and forth in the dim light of the transport bay on ground level. They were going to be driven to within a few miles of Cicatriz, and then they'd be forced to walk the rest of the way. But their equipment had been loaded, Tucker's PDA was fully configured and their vehicle was almost ready to depart, and still there were no signs of Mike. All attempts to contact her had been in vain, and there'd been no word from her for an hour. 

All of a sudden, a brighter light flooded across the floor as Dib opened the door and stepped inside. The first thing Sam asked him was, "Have we heard anything from Mike yet?"

Dib bit his lip and said, "No. We've lost all trace of her." He paused, and added uneasily, "She's disappeared."

"What do you mean 'disappeared'?" Sam asked desperately. "People don't just disappear! Tucker and I can't do this by ourselves. We need Mike, and we need her _here_, _now_, so _find her_!"

Seemingly unmoved by her outburst, Dib sighed and said, "I'm sorry, Sam. Mike isn't anywhere in the compound, we've looked everywhere. I know you're nervous, and if I could come with you, I would, but I can't. Just keep calm, keep focused, and you'll be fine." He headed back towards the door, but then paused and added, "Good luck," before the door shut and he disappeared.

Sam suddenly felt very scared; she hadn't done enough field work to fully understand what to do in this type of scenario. Without Mike, they were effectively blind; she was one of the more experienced field agents and, more importantly, she never showed any signs of panic. Mike was such a logical person, and that was why her sudden disappearance was so puzzling to her. But nevertheless, now they had no choice – they'd have to get Danny out by themselves, or the people who held him would kill him. She looked helplessly at Tucker for some form of reassurance, but there was none that he could give; she didn't feel comfortable with the situation at all, and judging by the contemplative expression on his face, neither did he.

"We'd better go," he said, gesturing towards the van.

Sam hesitated, then followed him as he walked across the bay. As the two of them got inside, there was a buzz as the shutter in front of them rolled up, and the van drove out into the dense forest, following a path until it reached the main road that would take them in the direction of Cicatriz. Sam looked out of the rear windshield into the indigo-blue haze on the horizon. Although the anxiety and fear still raged inside her mind, she realised that there was no turning back as the dense forest that grew over Division sank behind the hills and disappeared.


	8. 6:00pm : 7:00pm

Hi, everyone. The plot thickens; but I felt this chapter was a little weak, so I rewrote some of it. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

**

* * *

**The moonlight wasn't much in the way of illumination, but it provided Mike with just enough light to examine the schematic on her PDA. She was crouching behind a grassy ridge that overlooked the Black Dogs' compound, with her back pressed right up against it. From a few cursory glances over the top, she'd cross-referenced it with the plan and discerned that she was on the east side of the bunker. Both the front and back entrances were almost equidistant from where she was; however, the one at the front would be heavily guarded. The one at the back was a little more concealed, but getting to it was a hell of a lot easier. The pathway that snaked around the outside of the building was bordered on its right-hand side by a steep embankment, but once she was past that, all she had to do was follow it and steal in through that back door.

_It all sounds so easy_, she thought wryly, and she removed the clip from her gun to check it was loaded; no worries there. She heard it click into place as she slid it back in, and then fitted the silencer over the muzzle. She hoped, a little myopically, that she wouldn't need to use her weapon, but the more realistic Mike Masinski told her that it was a 'survival of the fittest' scenario, and that troubled her. Contrary to what many inside Division thought, she wasn't some trigger-happy psycho who'd happily open fire on anyone in sight. At the actual moment where she was forced to take someone's life, she wouldn't immediately regret it, but that would come much later, after the action had died down. Adams in Medical attributed it to some form of delayed reaction, one that would improve over time, but she hoped that wouldn't be necessary. She was morally opposed to killing people, no matter what justification was given, and she heavily resented being forced to do it, but in her line of work, she rarely had much choice.

A quick look at her watch told her that it was 6:13pm; time to move in.

She'd heard around Division that the Black Dogs sometimes posted snipers in the wood around their base to pick off potential intruders, so she edged her way up as carefully and as quietly as she could. Once she was back on her feet, she headed over towards the chain-link fence, slipped her fingers between the lattices and tested how strong it was. It wasn't too high to scale and climb over, but that might draw too much attention to her. She tried doing the same near the bottom of the fence, and managed to create a gap large enough for her to slip through. Attempting not to rattle it too much, she swiftly hauled the fence upward and edged under it. For a few seconds she lay motionless on the ground, listening out for approaching soldiers or the rustle underfoot of leaves in the undergrowth behind her. When she was satisfied it was safe, she crept over towards the edge of the bank and scanned it from left to right to ensure that it was deserted. Keeping the sight of the gun fixed on anyone who might come round the corner, Mike slowly slid down the slope until she reached the bottom. As soon as her feet touched solid concrete, she pressed herself tightly up against the wall of the compound before inching along it towards the corner. No-one came around from the side, so she crouched down and peered round. The door lay about forty feet away and she could see that there was only one soldier guarding it. Slowly she began to slink along the path, but she had barely made one step before the soldier's head whipped round and he noticed her. She fired before he could react, and caught him neatly in the leg. The soldier yelled and clutched his wound before collapsing on the ground, and she hurried over to his side. His shouts would've undoubtedly alerted other soldiers on patrol, and they'd be here soon.

Mike pressed the barrel beneath his jaw and clamped her other hand firmly over his mouth. "If you try to call for help, I will kill you," she whispered threateningly into his ear. Hesitantly she took her hand away from his mouth and withdrew her PDA from her pocket. The schematic of the compound was still on its display and she showed it to him. "I know you're holding a little kid hostage inside here. Point to the room he's in." The soldier stared blankly up at her but didn't respond, so she pressed harder with the gun. "Do it!" she ordered quietly. He tapped a point on the screen with his finger, and she quickly looked at what the location was. Mac was supposedly being kept in a large room near the far end of the compound.

She thought, _Great,_ when suddenly she heard other men approaching, so she quickly opened the back door and stepped inside. There was no electronic lock on this door, but that didn't help her much. The guy guarding the door was only their first line of defence; the compound would conceal many more. Raising her gun so it was level with her head, she backed into a corridor on the left side of the entrance. When his comrades managed to reach him, he'd tell them where she'd gone in, and that meant they would follow her. She didn't dare even to breathe as she waited in the darkness, hoping that it was dark enough to obscure her from view, until suddenly the door flew open and about five or six soldiers entered. One muttered something to the others, and each went in a different direction. Mike held her breath as one of them sailed past without noticing her, and waited until his footsteps had faded before she re-emerged.

The main hallway was clear so she stepped out, pointing her gun down every diverging corridor as she advanced along it. Her heart was beating so loudly that it threatened to mask any other noise; infiltrating buildings like this was familiar territory for her, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. The room where Mac was imprisoned lay off to the left, so she turned the corner at the end of the corridor and headed that way.

However she was greeted by a hail of bullets as a lone soldier caught sight of her and opened fire. She flung herself back behind the corner, hearing ricochets and gunshots echo off the walls. Panting for breath, Mike counted to three before she leaned around and shot at him twice. The soldier's body jerked then crumpled and lay still on the ground. Before any others got to him first, she hurried past his lifeless body and through the compound in the direction of Mac's cell, frequently ducking into any hiding space she could whenever the sound of men shouting or running reached her ears.

Eventually she glanced at her PDA and guessed that the room lay just around the next corner. Looking behind her, she stepped out into the corridor, only to discover that there was another soldier standing between her and the door, and that his pistol was aiming straight for her. For a split second she stood still, paralysed with fear, but just as the gunman fired, she snapped out of her trance. The bullet embedded itself in the wall just two inches above her head as she ducked back behind the corner, and peering as far around it as she dared, she saw him take aim again. At the same time she levelled her own weapon at him and pulled the trigger. A small crimson patch instantly appeared in the middle of the soldier's forehead; blood began to trickle down the side of his nose and his eyes rolled back in their sockets before he hit the floor with a dull thud.

Mike crept furtively towards the door and leaned on her shoulder against it, then turned the handle and pushed. The door wouldn't budge – it was locked. The hope that had risen within the last few seconds swiftly vanished. At that moment she glimpsed the body lying about twenty feet away from her and thought that he must have some sort of key. First, however, she had to check if Mac was all right.

On the other side of the door, Mac suddenly straightened up when he heard Mike's voice call faintly to him from the darkness and ask, "Mac? Are you in there?" He couldn't quite convince himself that he wasn't imagining things until the disembodied voice hissed more urgently, "Mac? Can you hear me? Mac?" He tried to respond but with his mouth taped shut, the only sound that he manage was muffled and unclear.

Trying not to draw attention to herself, Mike tried again but her attempt still elicited no response. "Mac, if you can hear me," she said, "it's me, Mike. I'm right outside the door, OK? I'm gonna open it and get you out of here, don't worry…" Having said that, she went back over to the dead soldier and hurriedly searched his pockets for anything that might unlock the door. Three of them came up empty but as she reached into another, she felt the distinctive shape of a key nestled in it. Breathing a sigh of relief, her fingers closed around it, but suddenly she froze when she heard the sound of a gun being armed from behind her.

"Put your hands up," a man's voice commanded. Mike obeyed, and as she stole a brief look over her shoulder, she noticed that he was coming closer. She turned back to look at the floor and it suddenly occurred to her that to let herself be captured was her best option, and by now her only option. The Dogs knew she'd be coming – after all, they'd told her to – and she figured that that would mean they wouldn't kill her, and she'd have a better chance of helping Mac escape.

The soldier paused and recognised the girl as the one that Moore was expecting. He obviously wanted her for something, and she'd be no use to him dead. "Don't move," he warned, and he raised the butt of his rifle and struck Mike in the back of the head with it. Mike yelled and slumped forwards, feeling her head throb before she lapsed into unconsciousness. The soldier slung her body over his shoulder and slowly began to wander back down the corridor.

From inside his cell, Mac heard a sharp yell as Mike was hit and he desperately cried out to her, but all that returned to him was the echo of his own voice.

* * *

From the driver's seat, Clay Bailey looked up from the dashboard. He recognised where they were and pulled into a lay-by on the right-hand side of the road. Cicatriz wasn't far-removed from the centre of Metropolis, but it was very well hidden. After all, it was to the Keepers what Los Alamos had been to Robert Oppenheimer and the Manhattan Project: quiet, remote, and more importantly, the home of their secret weapon. Fortunately, unlike Oppenheimer, the Keepers hadn't managed to get squat out of theirs yet. _And hopefully they won't get the opportunity, either_, Clay thought as he killed the engine. "OK, you guys," he said over his shoulder, "this is where I end and you begin."

Sam paused hesitantly before she grabbed her weapon and followed Tucker out of the back of the van. Tucker took a brief minute to collect up his PDA and then slipped it into his pocket. As he shut the door, Sam looked out along the dirt road that appeared to taper off into the distance. Cicatriz was two to three miles due north of where they were now, but they would have to do the last bit of this journey on foot; it was too risky and conspicuous to transport them right up to the entrance.

A sudden chill blew past her, forcing her to fold her arms across her chest. It was approaching nightfall now, and the path ahead lay barely visible amongst the shadows. But that path would take them to Danny, she remembered, and then everything would start to make more sense…

"Sam?" Clay asked, and she turned to face him. "You all set?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"OK," he acknowledged. "Good luck, I'll see you back at Division." With that, he revved up the engine again and turned the van around before driving back the way they'd come. His taillights gradually diminished in size until they vanished into the darkness. Sam watched him depart for a few seconds before she continued with Tucker up the path towards Cicatriz. Walking the remaining distance would take them at least an hour. She sighed and, knowing that Tucker would be doing the same, she silently promised Danny that soon he'd be free. All he had to do was wait. _Please, Danny, just hold out for a little longer_, she urged him, _I couldn't bear to lose you…not like this._

_

* * *

_

Mike was unsure how long she'd been left out cold for. Time ceased to pass by in its usual manner, but instead she and her surroundings were caught in an almost blissful state of suspended animation. All she was aware of was her own presence within this interstitial realm, where she was simultaneously floating and falling through both everything and nothing. Her senses failed to give her any better idea of where she actually was – she couldn't see or hear or even feel anything. _This is a dream_, she told herself, _I must be dreaming_ –

Suddenly she received a stark jolt back to reality as she felt a body of ice-cold water strike her full on. Her eyes snapped open and she yelled aloud with the sudden shock to her system. Her wrists were bound together and tied to the back of the chair she was seated in, and despite her efforts, the knots held fast. Cold water began to seep through her clothing and come into contact with her skin, and she shivered. She gave her head a sharp flick to try and dispel the matted strands of hair that were now straggling over her eyes, and she was able to see the room she was in, although not with much ease. Bleak concrete walls adjoined the equally bleak concrete floor, and apart from a few lightbulbs that hung crudely from the ceiling, most of the room was hidden by a vague, wavering veil of shadow. To her right, a soldier was grinning maliciously at her, evidently doing little to try and contain his amusement.

"I'm sorry that it's not much to look at," a deep voice said from the gloom, the same one she'd heard over the phone, "but then, that's not really what we have it for."

Mike scoured the room as the voice was speaking, but she failed to find its originator. "Where are you?"

There was a soft laugh, followed by the sound of footsteps, and a man stepped forward into the dim light. She guessed instantly that she was looking upon the face of Marcus Moore. "It's gratifying to finally meet you in person."

The question of what exactly he wanted her _for_ was one that buzzed incessantly around Mike's mind, but for the moment it turned to something far more pressing. "Where's Mac?"

Moore chose to ignore her question. "I'm impressed by your progress. It's just unfortunate that it came to an end a little prematurely –"

"Where the hell is he?" she demanded fiercely, "Damn it, _tell me!_"

"Calm yourself, Mike," Moore eased. "You arrived with time to spare, and I'm keeping my word. Your little amigo is safe and unharmed, and I assure you, he will stay that way." He paused, returning her angry stare with a thoroughly composed one, and then turned to face away from her. "But the transaction is not yet complete."

"What are you talking about?" Mike snapped, her voice growing louder with her rising fury. "You told me to come here within three hours of hanging up the phone, and you'd let me have him back, and I did. I did everything you said, now let me talk to him!"

Moore regarded her over his shoulder and continued regardless of her outburst. "There is something still outstanding." He began to approach her again, and added, "And you're going to help me get it."

"I'm not even going to consider telling you _any_ of what I know," Mike informed him bluntly. "And if you think Division will offer something you want in exchange for me, I can assure you they won't. I'm expendable."

"I don't want to know anything from you," Moore countered. "What you think you know is irrelevant. What I want is _you_ yourself."

Mike gave him a look of angry confusion. "What?"

Moore stood still with his arms folded, his indifferent scowl hardly changing. The scar across his face was briefly masked by the dim light. "I underestimated you, Masinski," he said finally. "You're a tough nut to crack. You stare death in the face and yet you still stay true to your cause. Your unfailing belief is truly admirable." He drawled the last few words as he paced behind Mike's back.

"I'm prepared to die for what I believe in," she said, unconcerned by his threats.

Moore pressed his cold hands on her shoulders and leaned in close to her ear. "You might be." He turned abruptly to the individual standing sentinel at the doorway. "Bring him in," he barked.

A cold sweat began to form on Mike's forehead as his order echoed through the cavernous complex. 'Him' must have meant Mac. But was Moore reserving something else for him? Surely they wouldn't do anything to even hurt him, let alone mutilate him…would they? She struggled not to think as the guard and a companion entered the room, driving forward with them what looked like a walking jute sack. A pair of shoes was barely visible below the mouth of the sack, but she never got a closer look as one soldier grabbed a chair from by the wall and bound the prisoner's hands and feet to it while the other one held him fast. The detainee put up no fight, resigned as he was to whatever was about to happen to him.

Mike's heart skipped a beat as the guard whipped the sack off the prisoner's head and she saw Mac's face, contorted with terror and dirty with dry sweat.

"Mac!" she gasped, almost in relief, but then started at Moore. "What the hell have you done to him?"

Moore didn't answer, but sauntered over to the boy's side and looked deep into his wide, fearful, blue eyes. "I'm going to make you an offer," he said, averting his gaze from Mac's again. "I must say that I'm impressed with your diligence and determination. However, it seems to me as though your talent and skills are not being put to sufficient use. They are too valuable to simply be wasted on your clan of freedom fighters, striving for what they cannot obtain. To continue with your current mission would be utter lunacy. That's why, instead of having you killed, I had you brought to me, so that I could make this proposition. You have a tactician's brain, Masinski – the working mind of a soldier. We could use someone like you in the Black Dogs."

Mike couldn't quite comprehend what she was hearing; she just stared at Moore's chiselled face in disbelief. Moore looked over to the sentinels guarding Mac. He nodded to Jones, who drew a flick-knife from his pocket, ready to release the blade if given the signal. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Whatever it takes to get you on my side," Moore replied.

Mike glared at him with nothing but pure hatred. "You wouldn't dare," she yelled, "he has _nothing_ to do with this!"

At her outburst, Moore grabbed her by the throat and she struggled for breath as she felt his strong fingers dig into her neck. Mac panicked and called her name before Jones clamped his hand over his mouth and silenced him. Moore looked Mike deep in the eye and growled, "Neither did my parents. But the Keepers took them away from me anyway." Mike spluttered as he released his grip. "Come on, Mike," he continued, resuming his former calm tone of voice. "You and I both know that your fight is a lost cause, a fool's errand. But we also both share a common ground; we both want the same thing – liberty. You know my way is the only way to achieve it.

"So – are you with us, Mike? Or are you not?"

"Go to hell," Mike snarled.

Moore appeared unfazed by the venom in Mike's voice. "Jones?" he said.

"Sir?" Jones replied, stepping forward. Moore turned to face Mac again.

"Take an eye out."

At that moment, Jones released the blade from the flick-knife. Mac screamed as Jones' comrade bore down upon him and forced his eyelids open. Jones moved to plunge the blade in –

"Wait! Wait! Stop!" Mike yelled desperately, a cold chill running down her spine. Jones paused. Mac took a couple of deep, shuddering breaths, the tip of the blade quivering less than an inch from his cornea. "Don't hurt him," she pleaded, gasping for breath, "I'll do it, I'll do whatever you want, just don't hurt him."

Moore drew her chin up to face him again, his baleful expression boring into her like a drill. "Either you co-operate with me," he warned, "or I am going to make you watch him die. Do you understand?"

Mike paused, swallowing the lump in her throat, and replied, "Yes."


	9. 7:00pm : 8:00pm

Whoa, this took a long time. I really appreciate that you guys are willing to wait for so long, but I don't like making people wait, so I will try to improve my speed. Also, I'm planning to re-write some of Chapter 8 and add a little to it, and that'll be uploaded soon so watch this space.

Rakal : Thanks so much for all your insightful comments and support!

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

In the interminable silence, the surroundings of the room became progressively more claustrophobic; any light that braved the dingy conditions was promptly absorbed into the gloom as soon as it surfaced. The lifeless concrete walls appeared to move slightly nearer each time Mike looked at them, but she was unwilling to leave Mac unattended for much longer than a brief glance, in case she turned back to find his chair suddenly vacant. She watched him anxiously from across the room, but she could still hear the quiver in his voice as he drew breath and then released it. Jones had retreated a little into the shadows and safely stowed his flick-knife in his pocket, but the gesture alone did little to assuage either Mac's fears or her own. She feared Moore's ruthless unpredictability and the way his twisted logic made eerie sense, but she was particularly afraid for Mac; she couldn't imagine what was going through his mind at that moment, having been flung from relative normality straight into this nightmare scenario. Seeing his dishevelled form shift uncomfortably in its seat, she tried hurriedly to formulate a plan in her head so that at least Mac could get out of here, but the relentless worry for his safety constantly caused her mind to wander.

Moore made another circuit around them. "I'm going to give you another chance to choose," he said calmly, standing behind Mac. "And this time, I hope to get the answer I want to hear." Out of the corner of her eye, Mike noticed Jones make another movement into his pocket, searching for his weapon. "Our next operation commences shortly, and I'm eager to have you on board – I think you could be a valuable asset. But in order to do that, you must first renounce your cause and pledge your allegiance and loyalty to me. Can I trust you to do that?"

Deciding that she'd let him play his card for the time being, Mike inhaled deeply. "Yes."

"Good." He nodded to the two soldiers, who came over to her and untied the rope from around her wrists. But as soon as she was on her feet again, Jones laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and immediately began to lead her forcefully towards the door.

"Wait, what's going on?" she demanded. "This isn't what we agreed!"

A small grin spread across Moore's face. "You mustn't be so distrusting, Mike. I've already given you my word that your friend will not be harmed."

"But if I go with you now," Mike pressed him, "you'll let him go?"

"As I promised. He'll be transported back to the outskirts of town and then allowed to go free. His role in this is over. Yours, on the other hand, is just beginning."

It didn't take much for Mike to realise that despite the earnest tone in his voice, Moore was lying through his teeth. Mac had already seen too much, and once he was out of her sight, they'd take him to a deserted roadside or into a field somewhere and kill him. Mike knew that was what they would do, beyond the shadow of a doubt. If they were both going to escape unharmed, they had to stay together, and right now there was only one way to ensure that they did – she had to let herself be captured.

Elbowing Jones in the stomach, Mike grabbed his gun from its holster and levelled it at Moore. Moore took a split second to register before he instinctively seized Mac in a headlock and pointed his own gun to his head. "I should've considered this eventuality," he mused out loud as Jones' associate drew his weapon on her. "You still let your emotions influence your actions. You want to kill me, but you can't, because you care too much for your little friend to allow him to be put in danger." He laughed dismissively. "Pathetic."

Mike glanced at Mac; his eyes were transfixed on the cold steel barrel now resting against his temple. Her grip tightened involuntarily on the handle. "Shut up," she growled. "Hand him over."

"You can't hope to pull this off, Mike," he called. "You know I have my leverage."

"Yes," Mike replied, "and I have mine." With that, she cocked Jones' gun and raised it to her head.

"What are you doing, Mike?" Moore said. Even in spite of his blank expression, Mike could tell that he wasn't expecting this development.

"I'm no use to you dead," Mike said. "Let Mac go, or I pull this trigger."

"Mike, no! Don't! Please!" Mac begged, but Moore held him fast.

"You're playing with this child's life, Mike," Moore said. "If you want to make sure he survives, you'll drop the weapon now."

"If he dies, so do I." Mike laid her finger on the trigger. "I'll do whatever you need me to do. All I want is the boy."

Moore mulled this over for a minute, looking over to the clock. It read 7:07pm, and they had other matters to attend to, namely the Eurasians. Having ordered Jones and his colleague to back off, he released Mac from his stranglehold, and Mac ran across the room to Mike's side. Mike let the gun fall to the floor, hearing it strike the concrete with a clink. Weakened by the ordeal, she knelt down and hugged him, simply relieved that he was all right, then toppled over. When they sensed that the danger had subsided, Jones' colleague grabbed Mike's arm and hauled her to her feet while Jones himself did the same with Mac.

"How very disappointing," Moore mused to himself, and he turned to the two soldiers, who were waiting patiently for their orders. "Take them down to the cells. We have work to do."

* * *

The rusty hinges on the door let out a wistful groan as Jones swung it open and he muttered, "Welcome home, kid," before he roughly shoved Mac through the doorway. Half-limping, half-dragged through the corridor by Lewis, Mike yelled in surprise as he hurled her weakened body to the floor. The sound of the door slamming heavily behind them echoed freely around the chamber. For a minute or two, she closed her eyes and lay still on the floor, breathing steadily and quietly. How could she have allowed Mac to get into this situation? For God's sake, they almost killed him. He was only nine years old, and those bastards could have killed him. All she had to do was look after him, ensure he was safe, and they'd swiped him from right under her nose. What if they _had_ killed him? She wouldn't have been able to live with herself.

Mac sat huddled up in the corner, hoping for a swift end to this ordeal, one way or another. For a brief moment, he thought of Bloo, Wilt, Ed, Coco…all the people he'd secretly promised that he would help. But here he was, trapped inside a labyrinth of concrete and steel, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, with no-one to help him but Mike… Warily he cast his eyes over to where she was still slumped on the floor facing away from him. He mustered enough strength to get to his feet and walk slowly over to her. Her smooth, auburn hair lay obscuring her face, and he delicately brushed it to the side with his hand. Mike opened her eyes at his touch and smiled at him reassuringly.

"Hey," she said.

Mac smiled back and said, "Hey. You all right?"

"Yeah. Just thinking about a few things."

"Me too." There was a mutual silence while Mike took a closer look at him. His worn face, his torn clothes, his tousled hair – the wears of an entire lifetime had been thrust upon him during the course of one afternoon. If there were any justice in the world, no other nine-year-old should have to share his experiences.

But then, Mike remembered, there _is_ no justice in the world.

Beckoning to Mac to follow her, she got wearily to her feet and went over towards the wall before sitting back down against it. Mac took a seat next to her and she tenderly wrapped her arms around him. It was only a small gesture, but it gave Mac so much comfort to know that there was someone else who really cared about him, and that she was here in the room with him. All the pent-up emotions from the last four hours unfurled within him simultaneously and Mike noticed his eyes begin to shimmer with tears. Instinctively she brought him in close to her and soothingly stroked his hair while he sobbed quietly beside her, allowing him all the time he needed to let it all out.

She glanced to her left at the cell door; a small square of dull fluorescent light stood out from what was otherwise an indistinct expanse of shadow. The face of the soldier guarding them drifted ominously past the window as he took a few paces down the hallway. Mac sniffed and stirred a little, and she turned her head to face him. Drying his eyes on his sleeve, he looked up at her and she wiped away a few of his tears with her hand. For a few minutes they sat in silence, preferring to let their body language do the talking.

Eventually Mac spoke up, his voice still sounding harsh and dry in his throat. "I'm sorry, Mike. I don't know why this is all happening…but I didn't want you to get caught up in everything…"

"I didn't want _you_ to get caught up in this," Mike answered, and it was true. This was the life that she'd hoped Mac would never have to learn about, the world that she'd hoped he'd never get drawn into. "But none of this is your fault, OK? That guy wanted me for a reason, he just took you for bait to, sort of…draw me in."

"But why?" Mac questioned quietly, "Why did he want you to come here? What did he mean by all that "valuable addition" stuff?"

"I can't tell you right now."

As he mulled briefly over what he knew, or rather didn't know about his friend, Mac asked, "Who _are_ you?"

Mike grinned enigmatically; there was so much that Mac deserved to be informed of, but now was neither the time nor the place in case someone picked it up. "I can't tell you that either. Later," she offered, "when we get out of here. Right now, we'd better rest up, save some energy."

A small window in the right-hand wall shed a slim patch of dark blue light onto the floor. Outside the night was calm, but the air was unnaturally cold and the solid concrete that penned them in on all sides offered them no protection from it. Mike could perceive faint clouds of mist that escaped from Mac's mouth with every breath and the two of them huddled together for warmth. "It'll be OK, Mac," she whispered, "We'll find a way out of here, I promise." Mac responded with a smile to let her know that she had his undeniable faith and trust before he closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder. Mike held him tightly but chose instead to stare into the impenetrable void at the far end of the room. Truthfully she felt every bit as scared as Mac did, but she hadn't come this far to let that maniac Moore take both their lives, especially not Mac's. She noticed the guard patrol past the window again. _Yeah, you keep that up, buddy_, she warned him silently, _because we're gonna slip right out from under you. Count on it._

_

* * *

_

It was unusually and eerily quiet as Skarr weaved his way through the Eurasian ranks, following the sergeant guiding him. An armistice had been agreed by both sides while the talks were taking place; as a result the air no longer pulsated with the sound of exploding bombs and sporadic bursts of gunfire. The Eurasian soldiers around him stayed silent, but each fixed him instead with a steely glare. He noticed that many of them still carried their guns and that their finger remained on the trigger, just itching to pull it and empty a round into him while his back was turned. However, the strong feelings of hostility came as no surprise to him; after all, here they weren't the enemy, he was. But he was also the peace envoy, he was the one offering them the olive branch – did that grant him diplomatic immunity? He sure as hell hoped that it did, otherwise he was in some serious trouble.

The makeshift Eurasian headquarters gradually came into view through the body of men, a reasonably unimposing building about five metres wide. The two guards on either side of the doorway noticed him approach and immediately raised their weapons. "At ease, men," the sergeant instructed. "He's come to discuss peace terms with Marshal Eisner." Lowering their guns, the guards acknowledged tacitly and allowed them to enter.

Inside the atmosphere was no more congenial, but rather heavy with uncertainty and foreboding. The sergeant led Skarr down a short series of corridors before they reached an antechamber and opened a door. They stepped inside and Skarr found himself looking across a broad desk, behind which sat Marshal Bernd Eisner, a tall, well-built man in his late fifties with a careworn expression and a gaze that was nothing less than piercing. Even as an enemy, Skarr utterly loathed him and on any other occasion would have spared no pleasure in telling him to jump into a ravine. But for the good of the civilians, he had to keep a civil tongue in his head.

The soldier saluted. "Sir," he announced, "General Skarr has arrived."

"Thank you, sergeant," Eisner said, and his eyes turned at once to Skarr. "It's an honour to finally meet my nemesis," he addressed him, cordially offering him his hand. Skarr grudgingly shook it. The sergeant took a step sideways and watched the proceedings with a level stare.

"So, General" – Skarr noticed that Eisner pronounced the last word with a certain degree of contempt – "what news do you bring us?"

Skarr took a seat. "I've come to make an offer of surrender," he said unflinchingly.

"On behalf of your government?" the marshal asked.

"No."

"Why, then, are you here?" he inquired. "Why did your government not send you?"

Skarr's expression didn't alter. "Strokov is adamant that he will not sacrifice his prestige through surrender. Neither he nor the Inner Circle will willingly admit or accept that the war is lost. When I tried to persuade him into entering talks with your High Command, and even when I warned him against the annexation of Vismund Cygnus, my words fell on deaf ears. So I came here of my own accord."

There was a short pause before Eisner asked, "General, how can I be expected to forge a peace deal with your government if they will refuse to cooperate with me?"

"Strokov has lost all touch with reality," Skarr stressed. "He's barely fit enough to walk, let alone lead. I am general and commander of the armed forces, the infantry, the tank divisions, _everything_. The only person you need to talk with is me." He leaned forward slightly in his seat and lowered his voice. "Imagine it, Marshal. At this point in time, Metropolis is surrounded. We have no lines of defence left, all the fighting is taking place on the outskirts of the city. The troops are completely cut off from ammunition and medical supplies, and still the Inner Circle has ordered them to stand their ground. The civilians have been besieged for days, their food and water supply has practically run out. They have little choice other than to shelter in their homes and soon, they will soon be caught in the conflict. Mothers, children, the sick and elderly, entire families, thousands of innocent people whose lives are being put needlessly at risk because the Inner Circle refuse to evacuate them." He paused. "Our situation is hopeless. Would you be willing to prolong it in my position?"

Eisner considered this in silence; the adjutant at his side barely moved a muscle. "No, General, I wouldn't." He looked up at Skarr again and his features resolved into their former stern expression. "However, regardless of whether or not your people were advocates of this war, they were still the aggressors in it. Therefore the only offer we can accept from you is one of unconditional surrender." The adjutant handed him a document which he promptly passed to Skarr. "Under the conditions of the agreement, hostilities will cease, your government will be arrested and tried under international law, and the city of Metropolis will be under the jurisdiction of the Eurasian Federation until the foundation of a democratically elected government. All that is required is your signature."

Skarr disconsolately read through the terms on the paper as Eisner announced them to him. The idea of the Eurasians moving in unhindered and effectively colonising Metropolis was one that he abhorred, but he was powerless to refuse. This was the only way to ensure that the civilians remained unharmed, and if he left it any later, the terms would surely be far harsher. He withdrew a fountain pen from his pocket and removed the lid, taking one final look at the document before inscribing his signature at the bottom. With no small feeling of relief he handed it back to Eisner, who viewed it swiftly and then said, "You must announce this to your troops that this has been agreed. I presume the helicopter that brought you here is still waiting?" Skarr nodded, although he wondered how being surrounded by the enemy was making the pilot feel, and indeed if a more fervent soldier hadn't shot him already. "Sergeant Honecker will escort you back. But for now, farewell." The two men shook hands again and Honecker led Skarr back through the building. Between the time he left the marshal's office and the time he got in the helicopter again, he was preoccupied with planning his next move. There was a strong chance that Strokov would learn of the deal, and as a result he'd be hunted as a traitor and shot on sight if caught. Also, although Eisner hadn't explicitly stated this, his involvement in the war, coerced or otherwise, was undeniable, and the Eurasians would arrest him along with all the others. He had to leave Metropolis tonight, but first he had to order the troops to throw down their weapons. The next step would come later.

* * *

Double-D stared at the clock and watched the second hand tick the time away as the final preparations were being made. Cicatriz lay approximately three miles, as the crow flies, from Division, and the geometric layout of the sewer provided a relatively straight route. Four other agents had already set out, effectively as minesweepers to check that the area ahead of them was clear, and would rendezvous with them at a halfway point just off Main. The EMP was currently being transported to the same location and once it arrived, there was a sizeable man-hole nearby through which they could unload their cargo and gently lower it down to the team waiting below. Lain had done her utmost to ensure that it was manually transportable, and the resulting device was about two feet long, faintly resembling the 'Little Boy' atomic bomb. But then with it came images of the carnage and horror it wrought, and he swiftly dismissed the thought from his mind. 'Little Boy' had been manufactured to deliberately inflict massive deaths and casualties, theirs to potentially prevent that outcome.

He wiped his brow on the back of his hand. To anyone else it sounded like another routine operation, but to him, this one was different. This time the stakes were higher, for one thing, but he also had to accompany Timmy on his first foray into the field. He knew that it was reckless of him to expose him to such danger; this was no coming-of-age thing, no sudden transition from childhood to maturity. Yet despite his doubts, there was the innate knowledge that his had been the correct decision, and this was something he could never communicate adequately enough. But even so, Double-D wished more than anything that he hadn't had to enlist Timmy's assistance, that he'd chosen someone else instead, but now it was too late to change anything…

He turned to look at Timmy over his shoulder just as he pulled a combat jacket across the bullet-proof vest that snugly covered his chest. In this imposing climate he seemed so small and out-of-place, an observation that triggered a fresh wave of uneasiness. His unabated conscience continued to rage fiercely at him and he closed his eyes to try and contain the yammering in his head. _You're going to get him killed_, it said to him. _You're just dressing him up, aren't you? Sending him straight into the belly of the beast…_

"No," he muttered out loud, "this is right…I'm right…"

"Double-D?" Someone lay a hand on his arm and startled him. His head whipped around to see Timmy standing at his side and gazing up at him with an anxious expression on his face. "Are you OK?" he asked.

Managing a thin smile, Double-D ruffled his hair. "Yeah," he answered, "I'm all right." He glanced at the clock again and added, "Are you?"

Timmy nodded hesitantly; the fear that had been manifested in his eyes said it all. "Still a little nervous, though."

_You're not the only one._ "Yeah, me too," he answered. "But you're in good company. We watch each other's backs all the time, and we'll do the same for you. OK?"

Encouraged a little by his assuring words, Timmy smiled bravely. "OK."

All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door and both turned to see who it was. Tootie Palmer stood meekly in the doorway, half inside, half outside. "Sorry, Double-D," she apologised softly, "sorry to interrupt…"

Knowing exactly why she'd come, but unwilling to embarrass either of them, Double-D said, "That's all right, Tootie. What is it?"

"Could I…I mean, if there's enough time," Tootie stammered, her head repeatedly tilting downwards, "could I just talk to Timmy? Just for a minute," she added hastily.

"Sure," he agreed, "I'll be outside." The next thing Timmy knew, he and Tootie were alone in the room.

"Hey, Tootie," Timmy said, surprised – he didn't expect that she'd be here, even less that she'd come specifically to find him. "What are you doing here?"

Tootie folded her arms and looked at him worriedly. "I heard that you were going out into the sewer…to help Double-D."

Timmy nodded uneasily. "Yeah, I am," he admitted, "I have to go and cut the wires." He trailed off, and for reasons unknown to him, his gaze began to subconsciously stray from hers. It wasn't that she made him feel uncomfortable, that wasn't the case at all; right now she just looked so afraid, as if she were regarding him for the last time, and he wanted to tell her that everything would run like clockwork and they'd be back before she knew it, but how could he when he was barely convinced himself?

Speech eluded them both for a while, but just as Timmy was about to break the silence, Tootie spoke up first. "Timmy, I'm scared for you," she said fearfully. "It's dangerous out there…people get killed…I just don't want anything to happen to you…"

Subconsciously Timmy broke out in a sweat. He had the odd feeling that there was some deeper meaning to Tootie's sentiments that either he couldn't figure out or she wasn't giving away. He reached out and his hand hovered in mid-air before coming to rest on her shoulder. "Tootie, don't worry," he reassured her, "I've got Double-D and the others taking care of me. I'll be fine."

Tootie tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Parting with him, although inevitable, seemed the hardest thing to do. All she could manage to say was, "Be careful, OK?"

"I will," Timmy promised.

"OK," she murmured, "'Bye." With that, she began to head back towards the door.

But just before she left the room, Timmy remembered something else. "Tootie!" he called and she turned around to face him. "Thanks."

Tootie smiled at him, and he returned the gesture. Just at that moment, his complexion seemed to her to turn a darker shade of pink, as did hers. Before he could notice, she swiftly turned around and walked out of the room.

As she returned to Intel, Double-D re-entered and asked, "You all set?" Timmy nodded firmly. "All right – let's go."

* * *

Allen stood at his post inside the Black Dogs' compound as an almost benign stillness began to set in. Considered a novice by many in the ranks, he was 21 years old, tall and thin with a shaved head. Two months ago, the Keepers murdered his girlfriend; grief-stricken, he knew he would be next, and in hope of finding some salvation, he had fled underground and joined the Black Dogs. Now he regarded all those who did not side with them as enemies; many were either cowards or conscientious objectors. If they weren't prepared to effect a change in their bleak, meaningless lives, they'd have to endure the consequences; it was of no concern to him.

However, in spite of his unwavering commitment to the cause, lethargy was beginning to steal over him. He'd been standing vigil for less than an hour, but the time had dragged itself out for long enough to feel like an eternity. The last time he'd checked on the two prisoners, the girl was asleep against the wall, and the boy was curled up next to her, using her shoulder for a pillow. He began to wonder how long it would be before the guard changed. Probably not for another couple of hours, at least. He sighed impatiently and stared at the wall. All of a sudden, the onset of ennui was broken by a faint voice seeping from inside the cell. It was the girl's, and it sounded scared.

"Mac?" it asked urgently, "Mac!" Allen paid it no mind and started to count the bricks in the wall again – who knew, maybe there'd be more bricks in it this time – but there came a wail and then a loud and desperate hammering from the other side of the door. Unwillingly he swiped his ID in the lock and opened it, and the girl's face instantly became visible. Her eyes were wide with fear and she was visibly shaking. "What?" he asked irritably.

"Please, I need a doctor or something, get someone down here!" she begged. He didn't respond and she yelled, "Please, he's not breathing! We need someone down here _now!_"


	10. 8:00pm : 9:00pm

_"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by" - Douglas Adams  
_

Wow – this is so overdue I can't believe I've even got this far. And it's not even finished yet. Basically I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer, so I'm going to post what I've written so far and upload the remaining content once I've finished it. This is about 60 of the chapter, and it really annoys me that it's taken this long. Sorry for keeping you all waiting - I only hope I can improve on the time it takes for me to write this thing...

Enjoy it, anyway!

**Disclaimer** : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

"Please!" Mike begged, "Please, help him!" 

Allen's indifferent expression didn't change, but nevertheless he turned back round, clicked on his intercom and spoke into it. "Infirmary, this is number two-five-five, I'm on patrol in Sector Four…"

Still feigning confusion and distress as he spoke, Mike quietly delved into her pocket and took out Mac's belt. Her eyes darted back and forth between the belt and Allen's back as she tested how strong it was. It would do. Creeping up behind him, she swallowed before slinging the belt across his shoulders and then quickly brought it up in a gavotte around Allen's throat. Taken completely by surprise, he fell backwards and tried to call for help as he was dragged inside by his neck, but he was heard by no-one. With her knee jabbing forcefully into his spine, Mike jerked on the belt and forced his head upwards. Allen tore at it in a frantic attempt to free himself, but Mike tugged at it again and he uttered a strangled cry as it cut further into his windpipe.

"You have a card for the locks in this place," she hissed into his ear. "Put it on the floor." Allen obeyed and fished it out of his pocket, his arm trembling violently as he placed it down. "Good," Mike said, her voice still dangerously low. "How do we get out of here?"

Allen struggled to speak but all that resulted was a pained gargle. Mike cut him off and said, "Don't say anything, just point." He raised his arm and gestured to the left and then back towards himself, indicating a second left turn. While she followed his directions, Mike reached for the intercom lying at his side. There was a crackly transmission that asked, "_…two-five-five? Come in, two-five-"_ before she brought it down on Allen's head with a crack. The soldier's body went limp and slumped to the floor. Almost instantly she grabbed his feet and hauled his body deeper into the shadows. Once the darkness had concealed it well enough, she gingerly lifted the gun from around his shoulders and checked the magazine. There was still plenty of ammunition remaining, but the noise would attract too much unwanted attention, so she couldn't afford to use it too readily. "Mac?" she asked quietly. At the sound of her voice Mac opened his eyes and sat up. She threw him his belt back and said, "Come on. We're getting out of here" before pushing the clip back into the gun. She opened the door a fraction wider and peered out from behind it. To the right of the cell lay a dead end and she turned her head in the other direction. Mac hastily fastened the belt around his waist, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest, and came over to the door, where Mike was crouching down and waiting.

"So what happens now?" he asked.

Focusing unerringly on the far end of the hallway, Mike answered, "We make a break for it while there's still only a few of them around." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You ready?"

Mac braced himself and replied, "Yeah."

"OK – stay close to me, keep your voice down and keep your eyes and ears open, all right?" Mac nodded; it was clear he didn't need telling twice. Mike's attention returned to the corridor. Another soldier crossed the intersection ahead and she froze in case he turned round the corner, but he carried straight on and promptly disappeared from view. "Go," she said. The two of them crept out in silence and Mike shut the cell door as quietly as she could before they continued down the hallway. They reached the left turn without anyone spotting them, and they stood up close against the wall while Mike scanned the top of the low stairway ahead for any soldiers; there were none. Immediately they ascended the staircase and hurried along the passageway before they came to a door with a card slot at the side. Mike ran the card through it and they pushed the door open and kept going until they arrived at a right turn. They stopped and peered round the corner. Another soldier currently had his back turned and was walking away from them. A metal crate stood a little way in, so they quickly hid behind it, waiting for him to return.

His legs folded up against his chest, Mac sat rigidly up against the crate, disorientated by how unreal it all seemed and yet how real it actually was. Everything around him passed him by at light speed and with a lumbering sluggishness all at once, and the effect it created was dizzying. He started all of a sudden as he felt someone gently place their hand in his, but he instantly realised that it was only Mike. They looked each other in the eye. Her solemn expression didn't show it as much, but something was alive in her eyes, something akin to fear or determination or the surge of adrenaline, or all three. If they were ever going to get out of here, he thought, he'd have to act like she did and not let his fear gain control. His fingers closed over hers in solidarity.

At that moment, a boot descended from the air and landed barely an inch from Mike's other hand, only just managing to avoid treading on her. Both their gazes moved silently upwards and they watched, hearts in their mouths, as the soldier paced straight past without even noticing them and then paused about a metre away. Uttering a weary sigh, he opted to stem the monotony with a cigarette break and withdrew a packet and a lighter. He put one in his mouth and lit it, savouring whatever flavour he could extract from the smoke before allowing it to escape from his mouth and float gently on the air.

Mike's grip on her gun tightened. This was their chance; if he turned round, he'd see them for sure. She furtively got to her feet and approached him from behind, raising the butt of the gun so that it became level with his head. As he took another drag, Mike brought it back a little and then rammed it forcefully into the back of his skull. A succinct grunt was all that passed the soldier's lips before he toppled forward and lay unconscious at her feet. The cigarette tumbled from between his teeth and lay smouldering on the ground.

Quickly looking on ahead, Mike saw that there was another crate and another right turn further along the corridor. Mac got up and they headed over towards them before she gestured to him to wait in front of the crate. Keeping the gun in position, she stealthily crept towards the doorway. The sound of two soldiers having a conversation wafted down through the small stairwell it led to. Somehow she'd have to draw them downstairs, and a plan immediately formed in her head, but this time she couldn't simply knock them both out cold. She briskly walked back over to the crate and said uneasily, "I'm gonna set this thing off in a minute, and…I don't want you to see what happens. I want you to close your eyes and wait right here until I say, all right?" Mac's eyes widened a little as he understood what she was getting at, but he nodded all the same.

As he shut his eyes, Mike inched along the far wall until she was level with the entrance to the stairwell. She settled the sight directly in the centre of a tile on the wall. Suddenly hoping that there _were_ only two of them, she fired twice and then withdrew a few feet to her right, listening to the noise as the guards raced down the stairs.

His hand pressed firmly over his eyes, Mac sat in nervous anticipation, waiting for something to shatter the silence as he'd done in the darkness of his own room. Two shots rang out from in front of him, followed a heavy thud and then another. Instantly seized by lurid curiosity, his fingers parted and he peered through the gap. The bodies of the two soldiers lay sprawled on the floor, their lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. For a moment his eyes were transfixed on the blood that was steadily seeping from their bullet-wounds and pooling around their heads, and as much as it revolted and terrified him, he couldn't stop. Then his frightened mind asked him, was it really Mike who had done this? How could she –

"Mac!" she hissed, grabbing his arm, "Come on!" She pulled him to his feet and they raced up the stairwell until they came out into another corridor that branched out in both directions both there and at each end. The left fork was deserted, but Mike glimpsed to her right just in time to see a soldier march across the end of the hallway. Once he'd vanished, she steadied her gun and advanced on his position.

Following her as closely as possible, Mac took a couple of deep breaths and tried to keep calm, but with danger lurking around every corner, it was no easy task. He glanced nervously over his shoulder towards the other end of the corridor, saw nothing and looked ahead, but his head immediately whipped round again. He _had_ seen something.

Another soldier had just stepped out from behind the wall, and he and Mike were completely out in the open. "Behind," he stammered, starting to panic again, "behind us…"

Mike spun around and caught sight of the lone gunman in the near distance just as he caught sight of her, but she was quicker to react and she opened fire on him before he could rest his finger on the trigger. Turning back in the direction they were going, she simply said, "Go, this way!" to Mac before they broke into a run. The soldier they had tried to bypass earlier came out from the right but he flew backwards as a fresh round of ammunition struck him square in the chest. As they rounded the corner, Mike recognised the shadowy path ahead because at the end lay the back exit she'd come in by. They stopped at the door and Mike slid the card into the slot, seeing an LED on the lock turn from red to green as it deactivated. She pushed it open and the two of them stepped out into the night.

The air outside was hazy with mist and drizzle. Through it they could dimly perceive a ladder leading out of the embankment and up towards the grassy slope she'd slid down earlier. Her eyes darting vigilantly between either ends of the pathway, Mike let the door swing shut and led Mac over to the ladder, allowing him to climb up first and then following at his heel. As soon as she was over the top, they both began to clamber up the slope. The ground was damp underfoot and they hooked their fingers into the soft earth to prevent themselves from losing their grip. In the darkness it was almost impossible to determine where their ascent would end, but at last the ground evened out and they sprinted the few remaining yards to the fence. Mike pulled the bottom of the lattice up again and waited for Mac to crawl through the gap before she snaked underneath, wincing as a few stray barbs cut her hand deeply enough to draw blood.

On the other side, without a moment's hesitation or another glance back at the building, they surged up and fled headlong into the darkness, guided through the trees only by the moonlight. Deafening noise rose from all sides, the heavy rustle of foliage coupled with their frantic breathing and pounding footsteps. Branches whipped and scratched against their faces as they weaved their way through. Mike's eyes frequently turned towards the treetops and once her pulse was sent racing as the moonlight appeared to glint off something metallic, but no shots rang out.

Eventually the rows of trees disappeared to reveal the broad, open hillside that led back down to the main road. Their lungs and throats were burning as they emerged from the wood, but they persisted through the discomfort down the slope, gathering momentum with every step. Once at the bottom, Mike cast a brief glimpse in both directions down the road before they ran across and concealed themselves in the undergrowth. As soon as they hit the ground she clasped Mac's arm to make sure that he was still there and that she'd know if someone suddenly whisked him off. Miniscule drops of rain settled on their foreheads as they waited in silence, ears strained for any hint of danger, but no sound reached them, save the occasional breeze that rattled the treetops. When Mike thought it was safe, they rose to their feet and began to creep as hurriedly as they dared along the side of the road. For a few minutes they followed its steady course back towards the city while the night hung still and benign around them.

All of a sudden, a pair of headlights veered into view, accompanied by the low rumble of a car engine; the glare cast a beam of light on the asphalt in their direction. Instantly they hurled themselves to the floor again and covered their heads. The noise steadily grew louder and louder until, with a whoosh, it passed them by and sped off into the distance. Mike lifted her head, saw that the coast was clear again and nudged Mac, who then got up with her, and the two of them continued down the road. Occasionally they would hear a noise and think there was someone in pursuit of them, but nothing could slacken their pace, not until they'd left the compound far behind.

* * *

Chilled to the bone and miserable from standing out in the bitter cold for the last hour, and now in the rain as well, a soldier trooped back towards the front door of Cicatriz, having just completed his shift. He keyed a number into a keypad, pushed the door open and headed inside the building, unaware that Sam and Tucker were monitoring his every move. 

"Are we in?" Sam asked as the door swung shut behind him.

"On the home stretch," Tucker answered. "I've managed to hack into their computer mainframe. All I need to do is locate the security grid and disable it."

"How long will that take?"

Tucker shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine – this grid goes on forever."

While he continued to trawl through matrices and data banks, Sam cast her eye over to the dull and lifeless building and waited in anticipation. Despite the overwhelming terror and ever-present danger, she felt heartened by the prospect of looking upon Danny's face after so long, that he was now only a stone's throw away when this morning she feared she'd never see him again. But she was also scared of whether he would be the same person as the one she'd fallen in love with; whether the Keepers and their Mengele-like experiments had reduced him almost to a non-entity, left enervated and deranged by months of being tortured in the name of "science"; whether the drugs had caused his memories of them to fade entirely…

Just as it had been for the last eighteen months, not knowing the truth was the most troubling part. Sam sighed and stared longingly at the wall, as if to gaze straight through it and catch even the briefest glimpse of him; grey concrete was all she was rewarded with.

The winter wind drifting across the back of her neck, she heard Tucker mutter "Damn it" beside her as he entered a password, only to have it refused by the mainframe, and again as the next attempt was similarly unsuccessful. After mulling it over for a little bit, he entered another and held his breath. The words 'Password accepted' flashed in green on his PDA and he released it, causing Sam's eyes to snap open at the sound. "Almost there," Tucker reported. "Now there's nothing to stop us shutting this thing down."

Sam tensed in readiness and moved into a crouching position, awaiting the all-clear. Tucker typed in the command and laid the tip of his finger on the enter key. Suddenly the door opened and a soldier stepped out. "Wait," Sam hissed quietly, raising her hand to stop him, and with their eye on the entrance they shrank back a little into the darkness. The soldier surveyed his surroundings then turned right and disappeared around the corner.

"Do it," Sam told him, and Tucker pressed the key. There was a soft click as the lock on the door was deactivated. Quickly they readied their guns and hurried out from behind the bushes.

Tucker cautiously swung the door open and glanced down the hallway before saying, "Clear." Before anyone could spot them, they snuck inside and continued towards the doorway ahead, scanning the corridor in all directions with their weapons.

As they went through the doorway, Sam pressed on her earpiece and whispered into the headset, "This is Manson and Foley, we are inside Cicatriz. I repeat, we are inside Cicatriz."

* * *

As he waited in a communications tent, General Steiner shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. Now that the guns and artillery had been stilled on both sides, a chilling calm had descended over everything and now billowed across the battlefield much like the wind was doing. It was too tranquil, too stark a contrast to the former deafening roar of warfare, and part of him pleaded for something to pierce through it, a gunshot, a voice, _anything_. Suddenly his calls were answered when a phone rang and an analyst picked up. 

"Hello?...Yes, sir…Yes, of course, sir…" With his hand over the mouthpiece, he looked over his shoulder at Steiner and said, "Sir, it's General Skarr. He wants to speak with you."

Steiner took the receiver from his hand and said into it, "Steiner here."

"We reached an accord," Skarr told him, almost morosely, Steiner thought. "We've surrendered. The war is over."

Steiner paused, contemplating the unenviable task that now lay ahead of him. "Then I will relay this to the troops immediately."

"Be precise," Skarr advised. "Tell them to throw down their weapons when the Eurasians approach, tell them not to provoke them or put up any resistance. We can't afford for this to fall through, the city's survival depends on it."

"I'll see that it's done," he answered, and his statement was greeted with a murmur of approval. "Is there anything else, General?"

There was a steady intake and release of breath from the other end. "Yes, there is," Skarr said, "but it's for your ears only. No-one else can overhear this conversation."

"Understood." At that point, Steiner turned to the analysts listening in on the call and indicated with a nod that they leave the tent. Once he was alone, he said, "Go ahead."

"You have to flee the city, tonight."

"What?" Steiner asked in shock, "Why?"

"The Eurasians took complete advantage of our situation," Skarr explained. "They gave me a document to sign which would end the war but also hand control of Metropolis over to them. I was left with no option but to sign it." At Steiner's silence, Skarr emphasised his point urgently. "They're going to take this place over, Steiner, add her to their empire. Their troops will start to move in soon and once they reach the city, they won't just go after the Inner Circle, they'll go after people like you and me and arrest them. That's why you have to get the hell out of here." Steiner listened, lost for words, and struggled to believe what Skarr was saying. "I'm leaving here within the next few hours," Skarr continued, "and I urge you to do the same."

Completely immersed in his thoughts, Steiner's eyes closed in resignation; he knew what he had to do. The chance of escape lay just within his reach, and yet he didn't feel that he could grasp it. "I appreciate your offer, General," he said sombrely, "but I must decline."

"Steiner, the Eurasians will capture you, maybe even _kill_ you if you don't –"

"I realise that," Steiner interjected, "but it doesn't concern me. Right now, my place is out here with the troops. Many of our men didn't even want to fight at all. I feel I have some sort of duty to stay with them. There's nothing left for me…not anywhere, not in this life."

There was a pause. "Your decision isn't what I would have preferred," Skarr said eventually, "but it's what I expected to hear. I hope the army serves you well. Good luck."

"Farewell, General," Steiner said.

Skarr hesitated and then replied, "Farewell, my friend" before ending the call.

Steiner silently replaced the handset and walked outside, where the analysts were still waiting by the entrance. "Open up a channel to the other commanders," he ordered. "I'll announce the surrender myself." The analysts nodded obediently and then filed back into the tent. A group of soldiers stood close by, looking out with uncertainty onto the horizon at their Eurasian counterparts undoubtedly doing the same thing. "Lower your weapons, men," he told them and at the inquisitive looks they gave him, he added, "You won't need them any more."

* * *

Further down the front, a soldier by the name of Ulrich Meinl irritably drummed his fingers on the barrel of his gun. The endless period of inactivity was driving him crazy. A couple of hours ago he and the other soldiers around him were in the thick of everything, fighting on the Keepers' behalf, happily taking pot-shots at any Eurasian who dared to show his face; now they'd been reduced to simply staring them out from across No Man's Land. He craved the adrenaline rush, he craved the giddy thrill that military service had promised him and that currently eluded him. Occasionally glancing up through the rain, he was considering having a smoke when his unit commander returned. 

"We've surrendered," he said bluntly. "General Steiner has ordered a total ceasefire. Soon the Eurasians will advance on our position and then forward into the city. Once they arrive here, every soldier is to disarm themselves and throw down their weapons." He regarded the band of soldiers gathered around him, many of whom stared back in silent relief. "We've lost the war. It's over." At that point, as the news continued to spread through the ranks, some soldiers, devastated by the impending fall of their city, pointed their guns to their heads and took their own lives. Gunshots could be heard all across the front.

Meinl gaped incredulously at his commander. He'd been betrayed. All of them had been betrayed. Their own generals had sold them, the Keepers and Metropolis down the river, and of all people, to their sworn enemies, the ones whose sole purpose was to destroy their way of life and everything they believed in. "This is treason," he managed eventually. "They're playing the city right into their hands! We can't surrender, the Party would never approve!"

"That's an order!" the commander barked authoritatively. "It's the only way to protect the civilians."

"Protect them? What for?" Meinl demanded, "Just so they can stay around to watch the Eurasians overrun Metropolis? I've made my pledge to the Keepers – I'd rather die than surrender to those Eurasian bastards. I don't care what Steiner said, I'll shoot at them until the last bullet!"

At his words, the commander lunged forward and seized him by the jacket, his fist resting just below Meinl's jawbone. "Listen up, soldier," he snarled. "There is a delicate balance here at this point in time and I have been ordered to shoot on sight anybody who tries to upset that balance. I've been waiting to put a cap in someone's ass all goddamn day, and if you wanna be first up, then go ahead. I'm not gonna stop you."

Fuming at the apparent cowardice of his comrades, Meinl kept silent. The commander released his grip and walked off. The other soldiers also began to disperse and return to their posts to await the arrival of the Eurasians. However, as they did so, Meinl headed off in the direction of the nearest comm. station. If he couldn't persuade the troops himself, he knew of the one person that could. Once he reached the station, he peered in through the doorway. It was deserted apart from an analyst who sat before a row of computer monitors, oblivious to his presence. Before anyone else noticed him, he ducked inside.

From the reflection on his screen, the analyst noticed him enter and turned around, nervously watching him as he bolted the door shut and then strode purposefully over to his side. He didn't know why the soldier had come in here, but judging from his actions, he didn't want anyone else to know what he was doing, and he broke out in a sweat as he feared what sinister purposes he might be here for. "What's…what's going on?" he stammered.

"Shut up," Meinl replied and he forcibly turned the analyst around in his chair so that he faced the console again. "Send a dispatch to Central Core, saying that General Skarr has accepted an offer of capitulation by the Eurasians and that they will shortly take possession of the city."

"I-I'm not authorised to send –" the analyst protested, but Meinl cut him off.

"Here's your authorisation," he growled and the analyst's eyes widened uncontrollably as he withdrew a pistol, released the catch and rested it in the middle of his forehead. "Do it," he ordered, "now."

* * *

Down in the communications room at Central Core, a young soldier skim-read an incoming message from the front line with a look of unparalleled horror on his face. Had he understood correctly? Did their High Command _really_ intend to gift Metropolis to their enemies, and all this behind the backs of the Inner Circle? Strokov had to know about this. When the last letter had been imprinted on the page, he tore the flimsy sheet of paper from the teleprinter and raced out of the room. 

As he hurried through the building, Chairman Vladimir Strokov was anxiously considering his next move. A spacious military map lay before him like a giant chessboard, its pawns currently spread in a circle around the city. Around his desk stood the remaining six members of the Inner Circle.

"Comrade Chairman, we received another demand from President Wasson about fifteen minutes ago," Foreign Secretary Heyerdahl reported. "He said that they were still open to negotiations, but he made it clear that if we do not withdraw from Vismund Cygnus immediately, they are fully prepared to launch a full-scale attack on Metropolis."

"Keep them there," Strokov ordered. "It will be a last stronghold if this city should fall."

Adjusting his collar, Roland Worff said, "Chairman, if the Eurasians enter Metropolis by force, the entire fabric of our society will unravel. The city will not be able to withstand an assault like what the Eurasians are threatening us with and if we are to prevent it from happening, we have to appease them, at least until we can muster enough strength for an assault."

Strokov appeared to reflect on this for a moment, but then quickly rebuffed it. "What is destroyed can be rebuilt. The divisions in Vismund Cygnus will stay where they are."

"But what of the civilians?" the Defence Minister persisted, getting more and more agitated. "We can evacuate them if we bargain with the Eurasians for more time, otherwise the fighting will come to _them_ and with no troops to protect them, the population will surely be decimated."

"That's no concern of mine."

"Chairman, I urge you –"

"I feel no sympathy!" Strokov shouted, rising swiftly from his seat. "The civilians are undeserving of compassion. They chose their own fate, and now that their lives are in danger, they expect me to –?"

At that point, the soldier burst into the room and stood doubled over in the doorway catching his breath. The ministers watched him in confusion and annoyance until he straightened up and walked straight to Strokov's desk. "A dispatch…for your attention, Chairman," he panted, holding it out to him.

Frowning, Strokov took the piece of paper and adjusted his spectacles. "Skarr has accepted an offer of capitulation by the Eurasians," he read aloud, "and they will shortly take possession of the city." The atmosphere inside the room instantly became deathly quiet. Horrified at the news, the ministers looked uneasily between him and each other, noticing the hand that held the letter tremble with fury. "That _traitor_!" he roared, "That disloyal, contemptible _coward_! He _dared _override my authority?" He flung the paper aside and it floated harmlessly to the floor. "He _dared_ disobey _my orders_? And now our _generals_ are following his lead? That bloodsucker, thinking he could commit treason against _me_…" His words gradually dissolved into mutterings as he sank back into his chair. By now sweating profusely, the soldier wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve and watched Strokov fuming silently at his desk. Suddenly he found the Chairman's withering glare directed at him, and the blood froze in his veins. "Who did you receive this from?" he asked.

The soldier swallowed nervously and replied, "I don't know, sir. It came from a comm. station to the north-east."

"Send a dispatch back to them. I want the remaining generals deprived of office and, as new Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, I order the troops to resume hostilities immediately."

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, then saluted and departed for the comm. room.

"Adler," Strokov beckoned, and the Minister for State Security stepped forward. "Find Skarr and bring him to me here. Scour every corner of the city, use every man available to you if you need to. I want him found, and I want him alive."

"I assure you, Chairman – the secret service will not fail you." Adler saluted, then turned on his heel and strode out through the doorway.

Strokov turned back to face Worff and Heyerdahl as Adler left the room. "Get a message to Hofmann," he said to Worff, "and tell him to commence with his assault."

"Chairman, Hofmann's battalion does not have enough manpower to take on the Eurasians by itself," said Heyerdahl.

"Then have them reinforce the front-line troops!"

"How?" Worff asked, "There's no way for them to penetrate their lines –"

"Then make them _find_ a way!" Strokov ordered. He got up again and began to head for the door. "The Eurasians may have us surrounded," he said, a threatening calmness present in his voice. "But I won't surrender to them. Never…" Without another word, he hobbled past them and out into the corridor.

Once he went round the corner and out of sight, Worff's eyes closed in resignation. Strokov's already tenuous grasp on reality was becoming ever slimmer, and now that he had replaced their generals, men with years of military experience, with himself and ordered a full-out attack on the Eurasians from their already depleted army, there was no hope left for them. Their regime had reached its twilight stages and he was tempted to jump overboard before this ship sank. However, suffering the same fate as Skarr would do in a few hours was not an attractive option to him. Glancing sideways at Heyerdahl, the Foreign Secretary gave him a brief nod before the ministers parted company and went their separate ways. As he wandered along the hallway, he could physically sense the small distance between them and the Eurasians, a distance that was steadily growing shorter.

Once he re-entered his office, he shut the doors, took a bottle of vodka off the shelf and poured himself a glass of it. He downed it in one, feeling the warmth it brought as it cascaded down his throat, and then sat back down at his desk. Staring dolefully at the clock on the wall, he watched time run away from them, tick by tick. He sighed deeply. He had tasks to complete, but not yet. First there was someone he had to call.

* * *

Their hands roaming across the metal walls, Double-D and Timmy struggled to see anything as they blindly felt their way along the pipe. Down in the sewer it was almost pitch black. Every footstep created a quiet ripple that reverberated through the tunnel and caused Timmy to look instinctively over his shoulder to check that no-one was tailing them, even though everything around them was obscured in shadow. 

Reaching into the darkness again, Double-D felt the cold metal curve away to the right, and the other withdrew a flashlight from his pocket. The forms of four people became visible as he shone the torch beam round the corner, and he was instantly paralysed with terror as one of them made to fire at him. Then one of the others said to the gunman, "It's Double-D, man, relax."

The muzzle of the gun descended towards the floor again, and Double-D breathed a sigh of relief. Motioning to Timmy to follow him, he emerged from behind the corner and approached the group. A third member came up to meet him and said, "Evening, Double-D."

"Evening, Sullivan," Double-D answered. "The field clear?"

"If there's anyone else down here, we haven't found 'em," Sullivan said. "We've searched everywhere, all four of us." Double-D nodded and looked briefly to the side at the remaining three operatives. Johnson, the gunman, nodded in greeting, a little embarrassed that he'd narrowly avoided shooting his own boss; Meineck, the taller one, did the same. On their left stood Gaz Driscoll, Dib's nihilistic and deeply cynical younger sister, who received him instead with an aloof stare.

"Good," he said. "Has the EMP arrived yet?" As soon he uttered the words, three sharp knocks rang out as someone rapped on the manhole cover above them.

"That'll be them," Sullivan said. At the signal, Johnson and Meineck mounted the ladder that led up to street level and ascended it. Double-D and Sullivan craned their necks upwards and watched as someone up above slid the manhole cover aside. A thin pillar of moonlight was projected towards the floor and to Gaz's astonishment, with it appeared the image of Timmy Turner, waiting and watching them. "What's he doing here?" she demanded, pointing a finger at him. Intimidated by her accusing outburst, Timmy edged away a little.

Not averting his gaze from the ceiling, Double-D glanced at Timmy out of the corner of his eye and replied tersely, "He's gonna help me."

"But he doesn't belong here!" Gaz protested, "He's too much of a liability. He should be back at Division."

"I want him with me," he reaffirmed, looking sharply at her. It had been enough effort to quell his doubts first time round – he didn't want to have to repeat it.

Gaz stared at him for a second before irritably muttering, "Whatever" and turning her attention to the bomb now being lowered into the sewer. Having clasped one of the handles on the EMP, Meineck was now leaning backwards as the agents above ground gently eased it at an angle through the narrow opening. Eventually the entire device was inside, and the other half dangled in the air from someone's outstretched arm.

"Grab that, will you, someone?" a voice called, and Johnson obliged. Carefully, the two agents climbed back down the ladder, each carrying the bomb by its handles in one hand and clinging to the rail with the other. Once they reached the bottom, they held it out to Sullivan and Double-D, who then set it down; there was a soft clang as the transporters replaced the cover, and their surroundings became dark again.

Double-D handed the torch to Timmy and said, "Hold this." With that, he grasped both the handles and lifted the EMP, which, although burdensome, didn't weigh too much. "All right," he instructed quietly. "Timmy and I will take it from here. Sullivan, I need you and the rest of the team to continue patrolling the area, coordinate with Division if you need to. Let me know if you encounter anything suspect."

"Will do," Sullivan said. "Good luck."

"And to you. See you back at Division," he replied. He said, "Let's go" to Timmy and then tipped Sullivan a nod before he headed out towards Cicatriz.

Timmy followed on, trying to avoid eye contact with Gaz as they passed each other. Eventually, however, he threw a brief sideways glimpse at her; she fixed him with a last resentful glare and then promptly turned away. Even as he and Double-D rounded the corner, he couldn't comprehend the animosity he was getting from her. Why did she dislike him so much? It wasn't as though his purpose was to deliberately impede their progress; Double-D had purposely asked him for his help, not out of a fanatical, ill-conceived notion that Timmy was some sort of miracle worker, but because he thought he was competent enough to do the job he'd been assigned to. As he and Double-D continued further into the darkness, he felt a little aggrieved at her lack of trust, wondering just what he'd have to do to earn it.

Meanwhile, the other four agents stood guard below the manhole in silence, training their weapons on any activity they perceived. After a few minutes, Meineck could still hear nothing but the steady flow of the water and sensed that, save for them, there was no-one else down here. But then, a soft noise reached his ears and suddenly he wasn't so sure. He waited a few seconds and then heard it again, a furtive movement in the water. A band of sweat formed on his forehead and he moved cautiously towards the mouth of the pipe it came from, almost adjacent from where he stood. The cavernous passage appeared to open up before him as he gazed inside and, curiously, the noise subsided. He waded a little further in but the only movements he could hear were his own. Still slightly discomfited, he began to head back. Suddenly he felt someone grab his head from behind and jerk it sideways, and then he felt nothing more.

Sullivan and Johnson looked up at a dry, succinct sound, similar to that of a twig snapping, and saw Meineck's body limply tip forward from behind a wall and land face-down in the water, calmly bobbing on the surface; there was no doubt in their minds that he was dead.

"Oh, Jesus…" Johnson moaned.

"Easy, man," Sullivan said, "stay calm." He turned to Gaz and said, "Gaz, you're unarmed. Take cover _now_ and we'll follow you." She hesitated and he ordered, "_Go!_" Spurred into action, Gaz headed off to the right and ducked inside another tunnel.

Feeling an invisible force relentlessly closing in on them, Johnson whirled around in a blind madness with the gun and frantically tried to spot the assailant in the dim light. "C-come on out, you m-mother-fuckers!" he yelled into the darkness.

"Keep your voice down –!" Sullivan hissed, but at that instant a shot, muffled by a silencer, was fired from behind them, cutting him off in mid-sentence. Aghast, Johnson watched him crumple to the floor but barely had time to react before another bullet struck him in the base of his skull.

At the sound of the shots Gaz retreated further inside the pipe until she was safely concealed from view. Outside someone shone a torch along the channel and she could make out the undulating reflection of an armed soldier wading towards her. She edged away as quietly as she could, watching the image as it loomed closer and closer on the surface of the water.

"Jung!" a voice barked suddenly from behind her. The soldier's head turned to look back at the comrade beckoning to him. "Move out, the bomb ain't here."

"They told us there were four people down here," Jung answered. "I can only see three."

"It doesn't matter!" the other said curtly. "We came looking for the bomb. It ain't here, so let's go find it." Gaz heard Jung mutter something in response, and his reflection began to recede into darkness along with the torchlight. Their footsteps gradually faded away and when they had resolved into nothing, she peered out from the tunnel. Whoever the assassins were, they were gone. Immediately she ran over to the ladder, past the lifeless bodies of her team-mates, and climbed up it, pushing against the heavy lid with her shoulder. A breeze of blissfully fresh air flooded in underneath it and after spending so long in the musty environment of the sewer, she gulped at it eagerly as she heaved herself up onto the street. She grasped the lid with both hands and held it over the manhole, taking one last look at the faint outlines of the bodies down below before she sombrely set it back down.

* * *

As the enemy on the other side of the mire prepared to receive them, a group of Eurasian soldiers prepared to commence their march into the city. The mood among them was hardly triumphal; the Keepers never stood a chance against them. Hopelessly outnumbered and outclassed, their line of defence had been pushed back so far it was encamped almost inside their own city walls. Their victory had been nothing more than a walkover; the real task lay ahead of them, that of rooting out the remaining party members and preventing the state from hurtling into anarchy once its leaders were removed. The process would take days, requiring far more manpower, money and effort than the actual fighting. At least one of the Keepers had seen sense and brought the conflict to an end before the entire city was razed to the ground, even though it sounded the death knell for their regime and placed a bounty on their head. _Sure hate to be you, pal,_ the lieutenant thought, and he hoisted his gun over his shoulder. 

Suddenly, his ears pricked, and he hushed the soldiers talking next to him. Through the stillness came a shrill screaming sound that gradually rose in volume and lowered in pitch and which the lieutenant recognised immediately. "That's artillery!" he hollered, "Take cover!" The soldiers hurried away from the sound then hurled themselves on the floor and covered their heads. There was a deafening explosion as the shell landed less than a hundred feet away from them, scattering earth and shrapnel in every direction. Tremors shook the ground beneath them before the noise rolled away into the atmosphere, only to be replaced by blood-curdling screams that rent the air. The lieutenant lifted his head to see one of his platoon writhing and shrieking in agony; a fragment of shrapnel had embedded itself firmly in his leg. As the others tended to his wounds, the lieutenant scrambled to his feet and made immediately for a comm. station. Pushing past the soldiers standing aghast in the doorway, he seized the nearest apparatus and radioed Eisner.

"Yes?"

"Marshal, we've been attacked," the lieutenant panted. "They fired a shell at us."

"So I heard," Eisner said. "I knew we couldn't trust a government that lies to its own people. At this moment we're mobilising all available units. Since the armistice has already been broken, we'll take the city by force. If this is the playing field the Keepers want, it's what they'll get."

"Affirmative, sir." His heart sinking a little, he returned to his platoon and ordered, "Reload the artillery." None of them moved. "The Marshal's orders!" he shouted. "Reload and prepare to fire!"

* * *

The hub of Intel was teeming with analysts frantically inputting fresh data and hurrying back and forth between monitors as Dib entered from the East Wing, and he weaved his way through the swarming mass towards Kimiko, who was sitting at her station amidst the chaos. "Kim," he said, attracting her attention, "have we had an update from Sam and Tucker?" 

"Not yet. The security matrix at Cicatriz went offline about twenty minutes ago – we oughta receive one soon."

"What about the EMP?"

"We got off the line with Peres a little earlier, said Double-D picked up the device without incident. They should still be on course for the target."

"All right, page me if something comes up. I'll be in Tech One."

"Got it," Kimiko answered, and Dib headed off, his mind almost on autopilot

When he arrived at Tech One, a technician inside said, "Just in time, Dib, got a live wire just opened up." Dib walked up to the transceiver he was sitting at, donned a headset and listened in. Someone could be faintly heard down the line, but their words were smothered by white noise and rendered unintelligible. "Hello?" the technician requested, "This is Tech One, do you read me? Please respond."

"Tech One…Minesweeper…" was all that was audible while the technician continued to alter the wavelength, but Dib's head whipped round at the familiar sound of their voice. "Gaz?" he asked automatically.

The static on the transmission lifted and Gaz could be heard more clearly. "Dib? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I can hear you. Go ahead."

"We've got a problem. We weren't alone down there."

"What do you mean?" Dib said. "What happened?"

"Sullivan, Meineck…all the others are dead," Gaz replied, out of breath. "The Keepers ambushed us, after Double-D took the EMP. I'm the only one that got out."

Dib's fist clenched; he wanted desperately to doubt Gaz's information, but the truth was still inexorably clear to him. Nevertheless he ventured, "You're sure it was them?"

"They don't patrol down here very often, Dib," Gaz answered scornfully. "They _knew_ we were down here, it was obvious. They came _looking _for us."

Pressing down on the bridge of his nose, Dib ventured, "OK – where's Double-D?"

"What?"

"Timmy and Double-D, where are they?" he pressed her. "Did they follow them?"

"How should I know?" Gaz demanded. "The gunmen went off in another direction, maybe they're trying to head them off somewhere. I don't know, I can't reach Double-D. He could be anywhere, these drains go on for miles."

His eyes closed, Dib listened to the last bit with only half an ear; his mind was in a dozen different places, each one presenting a fresh and pressing problem. Of all the incidents that could've arisen on his watch, this was one he could have done without. "…Dib…?" How could the Keepers have uncovered their plan so rapidly and effortlessly…? "Dib. What do you want me to do?"

He was roused from his thoughts by the question sounding in his ear and he murmured, "I need you to return to Division for debriefing. But watch your back – if we've been compromised, the Keepers might be stationed above ground as well."

"I'm on the way."

He hesitated and then added, "Wait, Gaz?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you OK? Did they hurt you?"

"What? No, I'm fine."

Dib breathed a small sigh of relief. "OK. See you back at Division – be careful."

"What do you think I do all day?" Gaz said and then signed off. Hurriedly removing the headset, Dib wandered outside the room and called Kimiko.

"Hello?"

"Kimiko, it's Dib. I need you to report to Tech One. Don't let anyone know where you're going."

Kimiko paused. "OK, I'll be right over." With that she hung up and less than a minute later she was walking down the corridor towards him. "What's going on?" she asked.

Lowering his voice, Dib answered, "The Keepers cottoned on to our plan. They took out our surveillance team, they were aware of their _exact_ location."

Stunned into silence, words formed in vain on Kimiko's tongue until she managed, "But…how's that possible?"

"That's what I wanna know. Damn it…" Dib muttered, shaking his head. For a few seconds, their minds beset by unease, they contemplated the situation and frantically sought an answer. It seemed odd how Division continued to function as normal around them, totally unaware of the sinister developments. Eventually Dib suggested, "Could the Keepers have hacked into our mainframe? Maybe they rifled through our databanks."

Kimiko shook her head. "Wouldn't make a difference. There's nothing to find – Double-D told everyone to keep any information off the network so this wouldn't happen. All we had on there was some schematics." An anxious expression crossed her face. "Maybe they're a little closer to home. Maybe they planted someone on the inside."

"Or they're already on the inside," Dib said, peering up from the floor. As they looked at each other, the realisation dawned on them both simultaneously.

"That could mean anyone," Kimiko said.

"Exactly," Dib answered, "which is why we have to leave everyone out of the loop." He peered through the window where the technician was still scouring the airwaves for any activity. "All right, there's a computer in Field Ops with full access to the mainframe. Pull up a database of all transmissions made in the last six hours. Cellphone calls, anything. I'll meet you there."

"Got it." As she hastened towards the stairwell, Dib headed in the opposite direction, wiping beads of viscous sweat from his forehead. With a mole inside the compound, they couldn't communicate with any of their agents or pass information onto them, which left them isolated and trapped in the open. Whoever this person was, he and Kimiko needed to find them before this chain of events triggered something worse.

* * *

_Watch this space...more to come soon!_


End file.
